


Persistence: Part 7

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, John Watson Whump, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-17 09:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: I'm baaaaack!When we last left our intrepid duo, the villainous Justin Giles had kidnapped Sherlock by mistake and dumped him in a flooded out cove. Will John and company get to him in time??Find out here!





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack!
> 
> When we last left our intrepid duo, the villainous Justin Giles had kidnapped Sherlock by mistake and dumped him in a flooded out cove. Will John and company get to him in time??
> 
> Find out here!

Sherlock is out there somewhere. In the water with a rock tied to his ankles. His arms tied behind his back. He can do nothing but drown. Sinking down, down, down until the rock touches the soft, murky bottom. Is he struggling? Is he already still? Has he taken his last breath? What was he thinking when he did?  _ John. John, please help me. _

_ *** _

Sally Donovan presses the gas pedal closer to the floor as her car nears Tintagel and its cliffs. Ben Travers sits next to her in the passenger seat, giving her directions and shortcuts the cheerful little jelly baby distributing GPS would never even conceive of. John and Greg sit in the backseat speaking to each other rapidly about what they are heading into. John is talking so quickly he isn’t even certain that Greg can understand him, but he has to keep talking. Anything to keep him from losing his mind. Anything to keep images of Sherlock’s lifeless face, his eyes wide open and empty, his beautiful curls dull and floating around his face in the water, from bringing him to his knees.

 

_ Can they find him? Was there anyone there to help him? Did he get free from the rock? Is he under the water or above? Is he dead? Oh god, is he dead?! _

 

John bites his own lip hard enough to draw blood to keep that question from reverberating through his head and forces himself to look at Greg. He has to concentrate on what Greg is saying, only Greg’s voice matters.

“Tintagel is small, John,” he is explaining, “and they have a police force to match. The officers are searching the cove as best they can. They called a local who has scuba gear to check the water. Some kind of treasure hunter or something, but he hasn’t found anything yet.”

“Jesus Christ! How do they expect to find him with one fucking man in the water?!”

“They have limited resources. They’re doing their best.“

“He’s not even a rescue diver!!” John nearly screams. Greg looks at him with worry clouding his eyes. There’s a hand on John’s shoulder, but it doesn’t feel like his shoulder. He can see it. He can see Greg touching him, but nothing feels real and his mind seems like it’s outside of his body. He hears Greg’s words in a warbled voice, his mouth moving in slow motion. His lips don’t match up with what he’s saying.

“He’s been certified in rescue diving for over ten years now as part of his work.”

John covers his eyes with the heels of his hands. He presses hard before he pulls them away and looks at Greg’s worried face.

“John. John, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” the doctor sneers before turning his head toward their driver. “Can’t we go any faster?”

“Sure, if you want to kill us,” Sally snarls back.

“God damn it!” John can’t hold in his frustration and anger. God, he can’t be in this situation. Sherlock all alone struggling, fighting to live and John is helpless. So goddamn helpless.

 

_ I love you, John. Words cannot begin to express how much. _

 

“Look, we’re close, John. Very close,” Sally’s words drag him back from the abyss and his eyes focus again. Greg’s hand is on John’s shoulder again and his tone sounds decidedly more comforting than before, even though his words are not particularly.

“And they are looking. They’ll tell me as soon as they find anything.”

Ben Travers suddenly turns around in his seat to look at the doctor, his face full of regret. He can’t explain it, but in spite of the extremely short period of time he has known the detective and his blogger, he has taken a real shine to them. It feels more like he’s known them for years rather than just a few hours, John especially. And with John, comes Sherlock. Ben will be the first to admit that he makes life-long friends quickly, but not typically in just a few hours. Ben shakes his head as he looks at John’s face, all ranges of emotion playing out on his features and somehow he knows these men will be friends of his for years to come. IF one of them doesn’t die tonight. If he isn’t already dead.

“I’m sorry, John,” is all he can think to say. “This is my fault. I should’ve listened to you in the first place.”

John’s eyes find Ben’s and he immediately regrets his unguarded words and emotions. Everything he has said and done since they entered the rental car could only be interpreted in way, assigning blame to one person. John’s begins shaking his head, his expression more focused as he looks at Ben and starts speaking. 

“You’re not to blame, Ben. You couldn’t have known what Giles would do. I’d never believe someone who told me a friend as good as he would run off and murder another person.”

“But Justin was coming after me, John. Don’t you see? What if he wasn’t after Holmes at all? What if he mistook him for me and now he could be de… “ Ben trails off, his eyes staring almost blankly at John as he curses himself silently for even beginning that sentence. He has caused John enough pain as it is without throwing Sherlock’s death in his face. Having no idea what to do or say at this point, Ben turns around to face the windshield again and looks down at his hands resting in his lap. “I’m sorry, John.”

John’s mouth stretches into a thin line. He licks his lower lip and puts a hand on Ben’s shoulder. The younger man flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“You’re a good man, Ben,” the doctor says quietly, but firmly. “You’re no more responsible for Sherlock than you are for Braeden.”

“We’re here,” Sally interrupts. A new kind of hell settles in the car as the tension builds and all four of them try not to think of Sherlock’s lifeless body submerged beneath rolling waves. Everyone turns their attention ahead as Ben directs Sally to the cliffs. It is as close as they can get to the ruins and Merlin’s Cave, a sizeable cove surrounded by rocks and stone that rise high in the air all around and meet at the top to form a massive cave over the water. A single uniformed policeman stands in the headlights waving his arm as Sally stops the car. They all climb out and approach him swiftly.

“PC Goody,” he introduces himself. “The Chief asked me t’walk ya down.”

“DCI Lestrade. Inspector Donovan, Dr. John Watson, Ben Travers,” Greg makes introductions all around, making sure to site his full rank for the constable, and then turns to Ben and Sally. “You’d best stay and direct the others when they get here.”

“Right,” Sally mutters in reluctant agreement.

“You’re not serious,” Ben answers incredulously. Greg looks at him straight on, his voice firm and eyes sincere.

“Just stay here. We’ll take care of it.”

Without waiting for a response, Greg starts in the direction PC Goody had pointed. The young officer jogs to catch up and step ahead of him to lead the way. John follows quickly wanting nothing more than to see his fiance as soon as possible. The three men move quickly, but carefully over the narrow stone pathways. The starless night sky is dark and they have only their torches to light the way.

“Takes ‘bout 40 minutes t’get down there,” Goody explains as they go. “The Chief and Randolph are checking the water. It’s usually ‘bout 2.2 meters b’now, but we’ve ‘ad more rain. It’s probably deeper. Maybe 2.5.”

“Jesus fucking…”

“It’s fine, John,” Greg cuts off the doctor’s unbelieving whisper. “Just keep moving.“

In the end, it takes them 45 minutes to reach the police chief and every moment feels like an eternity. John’s heart is burning like a painful ember in his chest. His eyes desperately search the water as they race for the man standing at the water’s edge, but nothing comes into view. The older man nods to them as they approach. In spite of himself, John can’t help but think he looks more like a grizzled old sea captain than police chief.

“Inspector Pierce,” the man greets them in a low, gravelly voice. “We just found ‘im. ‘E’s ‘olding to that rock wall across the way. Randolph’s under the surface cuttin’ ‘im free.”

John and Greg follow Pierce’s finger to where it points across the cove. Both squinting in the darkness, they can barely make out Sherlock’s pale face against the rocks. His hair blends in with black stone and water, appearing as a white anomaly floating on a dark canvas. He looks positively ghostly.

Without a word, John throws off his jacket, not even acknowledging the twinges of pain from the gunshot wound to his arm as he pulls off the sleeve. A firm hand claps down on the shoulder above his bloodied shirt sleeve and John turns his head to see Pierce staring at him with old sea green eyes.

“Where the ‘ell ya think you’re going? My man’s already found ‘im.”

“I’ll help him.”

“No, you won’t. You’re wounded. The current’ll ‘ave ye.”

“I’m not just going to stand here and watch,” John clenches teeth, wrenching out of the man’s grasp. Suddenly, Greg is next to John, gripping his arm.

“Don’t be stupid, John,” he mutters quietly into the doctor’s ear. “Being pulled under won’t help Sherlock when he’s out of the water and needs medical attention.”

John glares at Greg and Pierce in turn, but stands his ground. The matter settled, Pierce looks out across the water again. A slight look of panic flashes through his eyes and he steps closer to the water’s edge.

“ ‘E’s gone!”

With those words, all eyes shift to the rocks where Sherlock had been clutching at the cave side. Instantly, the beams from their torches begin sweeping the side of the cave and the water, searching frantically for the detective. John can feel his heart beating in his ears. The sound of it is deafening. Sherlock has to be there. He  **has** to be. He just shifted along the rock wall or slipped down a little and out of view. John casts his torch to and fro as slowly as he can manage. His heart thudding so loudly he can’t hear anything else. John gasps when the edge of his torch beam catches something. He swings it back. The whole world has shrunk down to the end of that beam of light where it reveals a man in a dark scuba suit holding onto the lifeless form of Sherlock Holmes. 

Randolph, the treasure-hunting scuba diver, swims adeptly across the flooded out cove to where they stand. As he nears, Goody jumps in the water to help lift Sherlock out. He gets a good foothold on the rocks while Pierce holds tightly to a rope tied around his waist. They all watch closely as Randolph nears the shore and Goody grasps Sherlock’s wrist as soon as he’s in reach. As half-assed a search as it may have seemed initially, the truth is these three men are far more experienced with pulling a body from the water than John and Greg would have thought.

“Easy, easy, Goody,” Pierce coaches. “Up. Good. ‘And ‘im off slowly. Slowly, now.”

PC Goody lifts Sherlock’s torso out of the water and onto the shore, where John and Greg take an arm each. Randolph holds onto Sherlock’s legs to keep him from sliding back in the water, should anyone lose his grip.

After a couple minutes of struggling, Sherlock’s body lies safely on the shore. John quickly checks for a pulse and finds none. He begins compressions as Pierce pulls the Goody from the water.

“Tall bastard, innee?” Goody declares.

“ ‘E is at that,” Randolph remarks from the water, pulling the goggles from his eyes. “Lost ‘is grip on the rocks just as I cut ‘im loose. Slipped right atop o’me. Wouldda taken too long ta find ‘im otherwise.“

Pierce and Goody help Randolph out of the water while John puffs a breath into Sherlock. He has heard not a thing they have said, his focus solely on the man lying before him. 

 

_ No. No, you have to breathe. One and two and three and four...twenty-nine and thirty. Come on, Sherlock. _ (breath)  _ Please.  _ (breath)  _ You can’t leave me. _

 

The tall man’s body jerks suddenly and water spurts out of his mouth. John quickly turns him on his side so the water can pour out freely. It is soon replaced by gasping and coughing. John puts a steadying hand on Sherlock’s back.

“Keep coughing,’ his voice is soft and comforting. “Breathe slowly and try not to gasp. I’ve got you.”

Greg watches as John expertly calms his detective. He punches speed dial on his mobile and is greeted by Sally Donovan’s gruff voice.

“We have him. He’s okay,” Greg begins as he steps away to continue the conversation. With the coughing stopped and Sherlock’s breaths coming normally, John turns him onto his back and starts checking his lithe body for injuries. He finds the wound at the base of his skull immediately and looks up at the three Cornish men.

“I need something clean to put against this wound,” John tells them. Goody rushes off and John continues his examination. “Is there a hospital nearby?”

“ ‘Fraid not,” Pierce replies. “There’s a surgery, but the doc…”

“I’m a doctor. I just need the surgery.”

“Right then. I’ll ready things to take ‘im up the path.”

“Thank you.”

John’s examination yields only minor injuries. The head wound and concussion are by far the worst of it. Sherlock’s wrists are covered with bruises and small lacerations from where he struggled free of his bonds. John gets Randolph to cut the ropes around Sherlock’s ankles, which are virtually unmarred. Apparently, he chose to ignore his bound legs and work with his arms only. 

Goody returns with a thick, white flannel and hands it to John. The doctor lifts Sherlock’s head and places the flannel beneath, resting his head full of wet curls upon it. Next, John turns his attention to Sherlock’s white button-down. He quickly pops all of the buttons that are visible above the black trousers. Sherlock’s eyes begin to flutter open when John pulls the soaked shirt open to look at a chest of minor cuts and scrapes from the rocks. Sherlock turns his head to meet John’s very serious eyes buried under a furrowed brow and sighs deeply.

“Hold still,” the doctor tells him. “Your head has to stay on that flannel. There’s a laceration and I don’t want it infected.”

Sherlock’s lips turn up in a small smile and his eyes slide closed. John checks the pulse at his neck again to make sure it has normalized. Greg squats down next to him.

“He okay?”

“He’s fine. More exhausted than anything. I’d like to get him to the surgery as soon as we can.”

“Pierce is working on some kind of transportation gurney,” Greg looks over toward the police chief and constable unfolding the narrow stretcher while Randolph sorts out the harness. “Should be ready soon.”

“John,” the deep baritone drifts up to John’s ears, barely above a whisper. Their eyes fall to the detective as his body begins to shiver. John acts quickly, throwing his own jacket over Sherlock’s chest and rubbing his hands up and down those lean arms. Greg takes off his own trench and covers the detective with it as well. John continues rubbing Sherlock’s arms.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is loud and stern, “you’re cold and going into shock. Talk to me. Talk to me!” 

“Dazed when I… when I hit the water,” he mutters. “I sank. Sank.”

His eyes close, voice fading away. John rubs harder and raises his voice.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, tell me what happened. I have to know now.”

Sherlock seems to force his eyes open and focuses them on John’s. He licks his lips and speaks a little louder than before.

“Got my arms free. I foun…found the cave wall. Pulled myself up until I could breathe. Didn’t think I could make it. Not in time,” Sherlock closes his eyes and grimaces as he remembers the pain in his lungs. “God, it hurt. It hurt so much.”

“Knew for sure you were still alive then, yeah?” John jokes, squeezing his fiance’s shoulders a little. Sherlock lets out a short laugh and looks at John, his eyes brighter than before.

“I held onto the rocks. I thought if I could hold to the rocks, I wouldn’t go under again. My hands…would slip,” he swallows hard. “I’m tired, John. I’m so tired.”

Pierce is suddenly at John’s side, setting a lightweight, aluminum stretcher next to Sherlock. He and the other two men pull at each of the ties, and the harness itself, to make sure they are all secure. John cups Sherlock’s face with both hands. His body has stopped shaking. John looks deeply into those silver eyes.

“Sherlock, we’re going to put you in this bed and carry you up the path. Tell me immediately if you get cold or dizzy, yeah?”

“I will, John. I promise,” John nods and moves away, but Sherlock grasps at his hand with surprising strength and pulls him back. “I’m sorry.”

John pauses a second, surprised by his fiance’s words.

“What?” John begins, but stops himself. “We’ll talk later.”

The five men carefully lift Sherlock into the stretcher and begin tying him onto it. He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again until long after arriving at the surgery.

***

Sherlock’s eye flutter open to a dimly lit room with white walls. Cabinets of various sizes, and things like eye and height charts, cover three of the four walls. The last holds a desk and a door that looks as though it probably opens into a hallway. The clock near the door reads 4:30 and, judging by the darkness at the room’s window, it must be AM. Sherlock pulls his hands from under a heated blanket to see bandaged wrists and recognizes John’s handiwork. He can tell there are a few small bandages on his chest, but does not bother with them. His wet clothes are missing and have been replaced with a hospital gown. 

He turns his head to look around the room, but stops before he has even started. His head aches and the pain stems from the base of his skull. Suddenly aware of a small bandage at the top of his neck, he moves his head much slower until what he wants to see comes into view. A beautiful, dozing John Watson sitting on a chair with his head leaning back against the wall.

Sherlock smiles to himself and watches John sleep. His mind falls back on those few dark hours when he clung to that cold cave wall, wondering if he’d ever see John again, his arms getting weaker and weaker, unconsciousness threatening to overtake him. He shudders and closes his eyes, steeling himself, reminding himself. He is not there anymore. He is safe and John is safe and they are here in this surgery together. Sherlock lets out a long breath and smiles as he opens his eyes to see John again.

“John,” he says quietly. It comes out as more of a croak. Sherlock licks his lips and swallows a few times before trying again. “John.”

His doctor stirs and opens his eyes. He looks at Sherlock a moment with bleary eyes and straightens up, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. He stands and pulls his chair close to Sherlock’s bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he sits. Sherlock reaches for his warm hand.

“Better.”

“You need to keep under the blanket,” John gently puts Sherlock’s hand back under the heated covers. The detective pouts, but John ignores him. “You were very cold and in the water a long time.”

“How did you find me?”

“Giles abandoned his rental in Wadebridge. We knew he’d come this way and that he’d go back to the house for Ben. He told us what he’d done with you,” John pauses and pushes an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “Dimmock interviewed him at the station after we left to find you. Seems he mistook you for Ben when he knocked you out on the porch and once he realized his mistake, he just decided to get rid of you. He’s not too fond of either of us.”

“He’s being held there now?”

“Just overnight,” John nods. “Greg and the others will take him back to London in a few hours.” John places his hands on his knees and pushes himself up to stand, puffing out a long breath as he goes. “You should go back to sleep. You need to rest.”

When John moves to step away from the bed, his foot catches on the chair’s leg and he stumbles a bit. It is just enough for Sherlock to wrap his long arms around the small man and pull his off-balance body atop his own. John flattens his palms against the bed and presses down to keep his full weight from resting on the detective.

“That was a dirty trick,” he scowls. Sherlock smiles slyly.

“I may be on the side of the angels, but I’m not one of them.”

Much as he tries to maintain it, the stern look on the doctor’s face fades into a small smile and a laugh. Sherlock returns the smile and pulls John closer so their foreheads touch. A moment later, he tilts his chin up and kisses John softly. John kisses him back gently, almost lazily. Sherlock slides hands up John’s sides and around to rest on his chest. Sherlock’s long fingers enclose over fistfuls of shirt as he parts his lips and wets John’s with his artful tongue. The doctor cannot help but sigh at its skill. It is as seductive as it is sweet, and it’s all John can do to press his hands on the bed again and wrestle his mouth away. He pushes himself up further above the detective and gazes down at him.

“Sherlock, you need to rest. We can’t do this now. You’re exhausted. You nearly drown.”

“Then stay with me. I sleep better with you. Just stay,” Sherlock pauses, reading John with wide eyes. He knows he can convince him to stay. “Like this.”

“I can’t. This bed is too small.”

“We can make it work.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles at John’s warning tone and pulls at his shirt lightly with both hands. 

“I’m cold. You’ll keep me warm.”

“You have a heated blanket!” John laughs incredulously. Sherlock releases the shirt and slides his hand down to John’s belly. Pulling the fabric free from jeans, the detective touches the warm skin beneath and splays his fingers over his doctor’s flat belly. He turns his head slowly to kiss John’s hand and then meets his sparkling dark blue eyes.

“You’re better,” he whispers. “Stay. Please.”

John looks into Sherlock’s eyes, his own softening. He shifts his body with a sigh and positions himself next to Sherlock. Leaning against his fiance’s side, he drapes his own injured right arm around Sherlock’s chest. The man’s eyes fill with concern as he watches, not failing to notice how gingerly John moves it. John shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock opens his mouth, but John hushes him with a finger to his lips. “You’re comfortable?”

“Very,” he kisses John and then rests their heads together, deciding to ask about John’s arm later.

“ **You** are a criminal.”

“I love you,” Sherlock giggles. John smiles, his eyes full of affection.

“I love you too.”

The two men settle in to sleep, holding one another tightly and not wanting to ever let go.

“John?” Sherlock whispers. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John pulls him close, sounding wistful. “You’ve saved me in so many ways. I was so alone and you’ve given me so much. I’ll always be indebted to you. I owe you my life too.”

The detective shifts so he can look John in the eye.

“You owe me nothing, John. You have given me just as much. You… you brought me to life. There will never be words adequate to convey my feelings for you.”

John smiles and kisses Sherlock softly, pouring all of his love into this one, chaste kiss. Sherlock shivers at its power. He feels as though John’s very soul has slipped right into his body. His fingers tingle with the feeling.

When their lips part, the two men look into each other’s eyes. A promise passes between them, quiet and solemn. They stay together in one another’s arms until both are sound asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, friends. How can two blokes be so lucky and so unlucky at the same time? One of these days, they'll stop being kidnapped, nearly drowned, shot, strangled, stabbed, and all the rest of it. BUT not until they retire. At least, not in my book. Heh heh heh.
> 
> Welcome back! I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. This was one of the bigger cliffhangers in the series and I know if I'd been reading it I would've shit a brick when Part 6 ended the way it did. I may like to torture you, but I don't like to keep you waiting. If that makes any sense. That doesn't make any sense. :D I'm surprised I feel this silly and jokey, since my college team lost today by two points. Two effing points. But let's not dwell on that. Our boys are far more important and I have a promise for you.
> 
> It needs its own paragraph, it's that phenomenal. This Part is going to have a lot of fluffy, fun, goofy, peaceful love in it. And sex. Lots of sex. Sometimes crazy fun sex. OOOO! I'm getting excited just thinking about it. Mm-mm! You just wait. You haven't seen anything yet. M'boys are gettin' a vacation.
> 
> Much love to all of you and thank for your support.  
> Jane


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a suggestion at the surgery and...the aftermath.

John is gone when Sherlock opens his eyes. He blinks a few times to clear his vision and looks around the room. Nothing has changed since he awoke earlier, save his missing doctor. Time. Sherlock looks to the clock on the wall. 10:25. The day nearly half gone already and he is still in bed. Sherlock pushes himself up to sit and stops abruptly. His head is swimming. He is suddenly dizzy and somewhat disoriented. The world begins to spin around him and a wave of nausea hits him. His eyes flutter closed. His body sways, even as he is propped on his elbows.

Finally listening to what his body wants to tell him, Sherlock slowly lowers down to lie flat again. He waits a few minutes before opening his eyes, hoping that the room will no longer be swirling around him when he does. His eyes glance around the room, quickly at first and then much slower when that proves to be too much. Sherlock searches for something that will provide stability while he is on his feet, which will be happening soon. He has slept long enough and he simply must find John. It has suddenly become essential that he see John and…he also needs to find the loo, but even that is secondary to seeing John.

Seeing nothing that will even remotely suit his purpose, Sherlock resolves to rise and walk at what will be an infuriating pace, but should result in the most successful outcome. He uses the next twenty minutes to slowly push himself up to sitting and then spends another twenty concentrating on not swaying or falling over. Once he feels good about his sense of balance, he slowly lifts one leg and lets it hang over the side of the bed. The other follows, at which point he spends a good thirty minutes turning his body so his legs can hang down comfortably. To anyone walking into the room, he looks like a man ready to stand and go to the door. However, Sherlock knows it will be much harder than that just to get to his feet, much less put one in front of the other.

Suddenly a wave of dizziness hits him. He sways backward, blinking his eyes to get them back in focus. He quickly leans forward and gets his head as close to his knees as he dares. Closing his eyes, he tries to concentrate on breathing slowly, having begun to gasp at breakneck speed when the room started spinning. Regaining his focus and opening his eyes to a world that is still and right side up, Sherlock inches his way to the edge of the bed until his bare feet rest firmly on the floor. It is tile and very cold, which seems to help ground him. He places each palm flat on the bed on either side of his body, bends his elbows, and leans forward. About to start pushing himself off the bed and to his feet, an exercise that will please Sherlock to no end by this point, but his efforts are not rewarded when the door suddenly swings open and John steps in.

“Hey! Wait. Stop. What are you doing?” he places the tray of food he was carrying on the desk and rushes to stand before the detective. With his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, John holds him steady and very much on the bed. Sherlock frowns as his plans for escape dissolve before his eyes. He crosses his arms and pouts, considering a good strop and wondering if he has the energy. “You should’ve waited for me. You can’t just get up and act like nothing happened.”

“I have wasted enough time in this bed,” Sherlock glares at him.

“What wasted time? There’s no case. There’s nothing. Just recovery.”

Sherlock considers this assertion and, while true, he has no intention of just sitting around in bed until such time as John says he is free to get up again. He lowers his arms until his hands come to rest on John’s hips. Sherlock pushes at him so he has space to stand, but the doctor does not budge.

“I am going to get up, John. Now.”

“No, Sherlock. You have concussion. You should stay off your feet for at least twenty-four hours and…”

“Twenty-four?!?” he interrupts with a snarl, eyes wide. “What the hell am I going to do for twenty-four hours??”

“AND,” John continues loudly, only lowering his voice to a normal level when Sherlock stops talking, “you are not going anywhere until you eat that food.” He gestures at the desk where he set the tray. “All of it.”

Sherlock fumes and fixes his piercing silver eyes on John. He speaks in a furious tone.

“I need the loo.”

“Seriously?” John blinks in surprise.

“Yes,” Sherlock mutters, still sounding murderous.

“Oh. That’s not quite the plan for escape I expected, but uh...”

“Yes, well, evacuating waste is essential to living organisms.”

“Right. Fine,” John squares his shoulders, getting back to business. “I’ll help support you until we get there.”

Sherlock’s shoulders drop and it’s all he can do not to scream. He generally likes when John cares for his injuries after a case, but not when said injuries force him into any state of helplessness. He eyes John closely and grits his teeth.

“Fine.”

John helps the detective to his feet and pulls a long arm over his shoulders. They begin walking slowly toward the door and out of the room. Knowing Sherlock is pissed, because he would be too, John lets him open the door himself. Sherlock grumbles all the way down the hall and stumbles a few times, but John is always there to steady him. While he truly does appreciate all John is doing, Sherlock’s general annoyance with the situation has him snapping constantly at the shorter man.

“Is this supposed to be helping me because you’ll have to grow a few inches first.”

“Shut it.”

Sherlock sighs a long-suffering sigh and continues on with his doctor. Once they reach the loo, Sherlock opens the door and they shuffle in. They stop with Sherlock standing before the toilet, a hand on the nearby sink for stability, and John standing behind him with his hands on the detective’s hips.

“I’ll just stay right here, shall I?”

“You most certainly will not!” Sherlock twists his torso to glower at John.

“I know it’s awkward, but I can’t see anything.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor. I’ve seen and done things far stranger than this.”

“You are also my lover. I won’t have you seeing me like this.”

“Like what? You are the most immodest man I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but he cannot deny that is probably true. Instead of conceding the point, he lets out a frustrated huff and glares down at his fiance. 

“I would prefer you did not view my penis in any way other than sexually.”

“Oh,” John begins with a smug smile on his face, “nothing will ever keep me from doing that.”

“I want you out.”

“So you can fall over? I think not.”

“Oh, for god sake,” Sherlock bends his knees slightly in exasperation to emphasize his next words, “I am not going to fall over! I can hold onto this counter right here.”

“You have concussion, Sherlock,” John reminds him in a stern voice. “You cannot be left on your own and I can’t see anything. I really can’t.”

The detective clenches his jaw and sighs angrily. Is there no way he can keep his dignity?

“I don’t just have to urinate, John.”

There is a moment of silence while they stare at one another. John could say that doesn’t bother him either. He has been pooped on by babies and grown adults, but that isn’t going to help Sherlock. Taking a shit in front of John, of all people, would most definitely eat at Sherlock for days to come.

“All right. I’ll help you sit and then I’ll leave.”

“No.”

“Sherlock…”

The taller man turns around to look at John straight on. He has to steady him a bit so he can keep his balance, but Sherlock plants one hand on the sink and clamps the other on a handicap rail once he’s turned. Glowering down at John, he announces in a deep, angry voice.

“I am more than capable of sitting on my own. Now, get. Out.”

John looks up at him, unimpressed but willing to give in on this point and let Sherlock preserve what’s left of his dignity. John takes a step back, eyes skimming over his detective for any hint of dizziness and finding none.

“Okay, I’ll go. But you call out if you fall or get dizzy or whatever, yeah?”

“Yes.”

John looks him over once more and gives a nod. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. John walks to the door and opens it, pausing for a moment to point a warning finger at his fiance.

“Don’t lock the door.”

Sherlock gives him an incredulous look and then presses his lips together in a thin line.

“Fine.”

John steps through the door and closes it behind. He takes a short step or two and then leans against the wall next to the door, crossing his arms and tipping his head back until it touches the wall. His eyes close for about a second, but open again when he hears a surly detective shouting through the door.

“Go away!”

John doesn’t move, but looks at the door, startled.

“You’re standing just outside the door. Go. Away.”

“So I can’t hear when you fall over?” he answers with a quick laugh. “Not happening, Sherlock.”

“Why are you so obsessed with me falling over? I am not going to fall over!”

“I am NOT moving away from this door!” John shouts back.

“I won’t have you listening.”

“Just what the hell do you think I’m going to hear?!” John is facing the door full-on now. He wants to be understanding and accommodating to Sherlock’s needs. Of course he does, but this is ridiculous. He leans in to shout at the door again, but Sherlock beats him to it.

“You know damn well!”

“I’ve heard it before,” John throws up his hands in frustration. “We’ve  **all** heard it before. Just get on with it. “

“No!”

John glares at the door. He’s sure Sherlock is right on the other side. If he could squat right now, he’d be peeking through the keyhole on the ancient knob, staring at John’s trousers.

“Sherlock, I am not moving from this spot.”

Silence.

“Then sing.”

“What?”

“I’ll not have you listening, John Watson. You either go away or sing so you can’t hear.”

“Oh my god, Sherlock, this has just moved from ridiculous to fucking lunacy!”

“If you’re not going to do it, go away,” Sherlock’s haughty voice replies. John glares again, then sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Fine.”

On the other side of the door, Sherlock listens for footsteps. Hearing none, but convinced John has left, he sits on the toilet intending to carry out his business. What he hears next puts a halt to his plans and nearly his entire mental process. Sherlock stares at the closed door in disbelief as a quiet, but gorgeous second tenor voice wafts in from the hall.

_ This is my love song to you. Let every woman know I’m yours. So you can fall asleep each night, babe, and know I’m dreaming of you more.  _

Shocked, Sherlock cannot take his eyes off the closed door. He blinks once, twice, completely dumbfounded. Sherlock leans back against the tank and listens to the words, still unable to believe the sweet sound is coming from John. Why did he never say anything about being able to sing?

_ I will never stop trying. I will never stop watching as you leave. I will never stop losing my breath every time I see you looking back at me. I will never stop holding your hand. I will never stop opening your door. I will never stop choosing you, babe. I will never get used to you. _

Outside the door, John continues singing softly. His head leans back on the wall again and his eyes are closed. Before long, he loses himself in the song as he thinks about Sherlock. His eyes when he looks at John fondly first thing in the morning. His mouth when he wears that knowing grin of triumph after a case. His hands when he skims them down John’s arms and then takes John’s hands in his long fingers and soft palms.

When John reaches the end of the song, his eyes remain closed, his body relaxed. Until, that is, he hears the door to the loo open abruptly. His eyes pop open to see six feet of consulting detective holding himself up in the doorway and wearing a look of surprise on his face. John pushes off the wall and stands up straight, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and finally settling them on his hips.

“You never told me you could sing.”

“Uh, well, it never came up.”

“You have a beautiful voice, John,” the taller man pauses. “I like the song.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” John says, ducking his head at the praise. Sherlock touches two fingers to John’s chin and tips his face up. Their eyes meet.

“I like the way you sing it.”

“Thank you,” he replies quietly. “It makes me think of you. Of us.”

Sherlock smiles at John affectionately and balances just long enough to lean forward and brush his soft lips over John’s. Their eyes close and John sighs. They both take a deep breath together, inhaling the same air. The same breath. John’s hands move to Sherlock’s hips and he opens his eyes. Sparkling silver looks back.

“Let’s get back to the exam room. You have some food to eat.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“I will,” John smiles.

***

John and Sherlock talk as Sherlock eats the soup and roll his flatmate has prepared for him. He gave John an unamused look when he saw there was also jello on the tray. The doctor just grinned and reminded him that he had to eat every morsel before there would be any more walking. Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh and tucked into the soup.

As Sherlock eats, he quickly finds that everything on the tray is delicious and he has no qualms with John’s selections. For his part, John tells Sherlock all the events of the night before in more detail, as well as reiterating the plans for Giles’ transport back to London. He has more or less finished by the time Sherlock picks up his spoon, rolls his eyes, and begins eating the jello. John takes a deep breath and decides it’s time to broach the subject he has wanted to mention since entering the room and finding Sherlock attempting to get on his feet.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” John starts. Sherlock arches a brow and sucks jello off his spoon. “Your doctor has ordered, and will see that you stick to, rest and recuperation.”

“Has he now?” the detective asks, his lips turning up.

“Yes, he has. And we’re already here in Cornwall,” John pauses, watching his fiance. “I thought we could stay here on holiday for a bit.”

Sherlock shifts some jello around in his mouth and then shifts his weight uncomfortably on the bed. His face looks doubtful. John sits on the edge of his chair and immediately launches into his reasoning, principles he hopes will convince Sherlock this is an excellent idea.

“It would be the perfect place for you to relax. Ben is so grateful for our help that he offered the use of a little cottage on his property for as long as we want to stay. I already phoned Sarah and got some time off from the surgery,” John is quiet for a second while Sherlock swallows and clears his throat, but presses on before the detective can give him any reason not to stay. “When you’re back on your feet, we could see some of the sites. I’m not saying we’ll be back at Tintagel anytime soon, but we could go to Padstow and have a boat ride or go to the beach, maybe hike along the seashore. In the meantime, we could do some more planning on our wedding. And have spectacular sex in every room we can in the cottage,” he smiles hopefully, not sure what else to say that would make it more convincing. “It has a launderette.”

Sherlock wears a contemplative expression as he actually, AMAZINGLY waits for John to finish.

“Am I to understand,” he begins in a deductive tone, “that my doctor believes I will be immediately ready for sex?”

“Yes, I do,” John raises his brows. “After the first 24 hours of course.”

“Oh, of course,” the corner of Sherlock’s mouth curls into a half-smile he reserves for when John truly amuses him. Before either man can say anymore, there is a light tap on the door as it opens and Greg and Sally walk in. Both are hesitant, but relieved when they see the detective sitting up and talking with his doctor.

“So you got him to eat after all. The threats must have worked,” Sally gives the duo a jovial smile and, much to John’s surprise, Sherlock simply nods. Greg’s smile is bright and cheerful as well.

“It’s good to see you sitting up and lucid. It looked pretty bad when we pulled you from the water.”

“Thank you. Fortunately, I have an exceptional doctor.”

John’s eyes dart to the floor.

“You do at that,”  Greg agrees, smiling at John and then straightening up a bit. “Well, we just came in to let you know that we’re leaving for London. Once again, the Yard wants to extend its thanks for our assistance.”

“Always a pleasure.”

“My god,” Sally gives John a look of faux shock. “Is it the concussion or did you put something in the food?”

John and Greg both snicker quietly. Sherlock merely frowns and sips his tea.

“In any case, glad to see you’re doing well, mate,” Greg looks from one man to the other, “We’ll see you back in London.”

“Sure thing, Greg,” John replies. 

They both give a nod, more well wishes, and are out the door. As John watches the door close, his back to the detective, he hears him shift in the bed. His body fills with anxiety and expectation, preparing himself to listen to all the reasons he and Sherlock should go back to London presently.

“John?”

“Yes?” John’s voice is quiet and he does not turn to face his fiance, afraid to let the detective see his disappointment when he insists upon returning home.

“I like the idea of a sex holiday.”

There is a pause and John waits, but nothing follows. He licks his lips and asks quietly. 

“But?”

“But?”

“But you can’t spare the time away from the Work?” John turns to face him. “You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

“How could I possibly be bored on a sex holiday with the most delectable fiance in all of England?”

John’s brows shoot up to his hairline and he breaks into possibly the biggest smile he has ever worn. He launches forward, throws his arms around his detective, and locks their lips together.

***

John lays back on a reclining sun chair in only swimming trunks purchased from a local shop. Three days after the case with Giles and it is actually the first time he and Sherlock have left the Travers Cottage, the previous days spent living as nudists and having sex whenever the mood has struck.

John sighs and closes his eyes, his hands behind his head. This has, without a doubt, been the best and most relaxing holiday he has taken in the whole of his life. Even his mad fiance seems to be fully enjoying their leisure. Not once has the man mentioned a case, the Work, London, or boredom. John is certain that time will come, but isn’t going to bother with it until it actually does and even then, he isn’t going to argue. He’s simply going to shag Sherlock’s brains out. He sighs again contentedly and decides that their honeymoon is going to be exactly like this.

John is pulled from his reverie when a soaking wet Sherlock, fresh from a swim in the ocean, jumps onto the sun chair and straddles the doctor’s thighs. John smiles, but does not move or open his eyes. Sherlock grins down at him, bends forward slightly, and shakes his dripping curls over the smaller man.

“Oi! Get off!”

Hands going quickly from behind his head to in front of it, John tries to shield himself from the salty shower. He looks up at its laughing source to see mischievous silver eyes and a joyful smile all tied up with the sexist cheekbones known to man. John doesn’t even try to feign anger and just beams up at Sherlock, resting his hands on the man’s luscious thighs.

“Ta.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Have a good swim?”

“Exquisite. The water is perfect, John. Join me?”

“Why don’t you join me a while first?” John wears a teasing expression and ghosts his fingers over the firm muscles under Sherlock’s light blue, and covered with bright orange fish, swimming trunks. He told him they were ridiculous when they were in the shop that morning, but Sherlock had insisted. Thank god there hadn’t been any with bees.

Sherlock’s bright eyes glisten as he rests his hands on John’s shoulders and swoops in low for a kiss. John’s lips feel like fire against his own, chilled from the ocean water, making Sherlock hungry for more. More of John’s mouth and skin and warmth. He moves his mouth quickly to the hot skin of John’s jaw and kisses back to his ear, licking and kissing at the sensitive skin just behind its lobe. John throws his head back on the sun chair, his mouth opening in tandem. Sherlock returns to those lips immediately, his plan having succeeded, and dives in. He licks at teeth and tongue, slanting both their heads to deepen the kiss. John moans into his mouth, emboldening the detective.

His hands move down John’s chest and over his taut belly to his trunks. Their erections rub together when Sherlock tilts his hips down to grind onto John’s and the doctor moans again. His hands cup Sherlock’s face to hold the kiss. Long thumbs hook into the waistband of John’s trunks and begin to tug downward dangerously.

One hip bone is exposed before John comes to his senses and opens his eyes. He grips the detective’s shoulders and pushes him just far enough away for their lips to pop apart. Sherlock’s fingers still and he pouts down at John.

“Sherlock, we can’t do this here.”

“Why ever not? We’ve spent the last two days copulating where ever we liked.”

“Yeah, in the cottage. We’re outside now. On a beach.”

“No one has been here since we arrived.”

“But anyone could happen by.”

“But no one will.”

“You don’t know that.” 

Sherlock sits up again with an irritated sigh and looks down at his frowning fiance.

“The evidence suggests that this beach is not frequently used and, therefore, not a major attraction to tourists. It is small and hidden away between high, grassy lands. Few are likely to even know it is here. Given the lack of footprints or any other signs of humans, it is safe to say we will not be disturbed in any way.“

Having explained his reasoning in adequate detail, he tries to lean down and capture John’s mouth, but the doctor presses himself back into the chair.

“No, Sherlock. Despite what you may think, I’m not one for exhibitionism.”

“Says the man who has strolled about without a stitch of clothing for the last two days.”

“In. The. Cottage.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sag. John has the same look of stubborn irritation on his face he wore that morning when he gently placed his hand over Sherlock’s and told him what would happen if he put away the marmalade.

“Oh, very well,” he sighs. He pulls John’s trunks back over his hip and starts climbing off of his lover’s body, but John holds tight to his thighs and grins roguishly.

“I didn’t say you had to get off.”

“On the contrary, I believe those were your very first words to me.”

“Well,” John eyes him slyly, “I’ve changed my mind, haven’t I?”

“Have you?”

“Absolutely,” John pulls him by his thighs until Sherlock is straddling his hips instead of his thighs. He thrusts upward and allows his full cock to rub against his fiance’s ass, right between his cheeks. Sherlock’s eyes go wide in surprise and begin to dilate. John’s smile grows. He isn’t looking at Sherlock’s trunks, but he knows they’re beginning to tighten and bulge.

“Have I ever told you,” he begins, sliding his hands around to grip Sherlock’s pert buttocks, “how gorgeous your ass is?”

“You might have mentioned it,” Sherlock’s mouth turns up, “but not for some time.”

“A great oversight on my part,” John squeezes said ass and not gently. Sherlock leans down to kiss John, grinding himself on John’s erection. The doctor growls and pulls his fiance’s body against his own tightly. “It. Is. Perfect.” John begins to knead as he goes on. “Quite certainly the most glorious ass ever.”

“John, we’ve had this discussion already and I maintain what I said before. That is a gross exaggeration.”

“No, it really isn’t,” he catches Sherlock’s downturned lips with his own and has the detective’s stern expression melting away in seconds. John swirls his tongue around Sherlock’s and moves his hands to match, caressing the surprisingly smooth fabric of his trunks. Maybe that’s really why Sherlock wanted them. A low rumble from deep in John’s throat drifts to Sherlock’s ears and he lets out a little whine of his own as he licks into John’s mouth. “God, it’s beautiful. Hot...gorgeous.”

“You’ve said that already,” Sherlock giggles in between kisses.

“Mm..it bears repeating,” John sucks Sherlock’s luscious bottom lip in between his own and he moans obscenely. John bucks his hips hard against Sherlock, still holding his ass tightly. Losing all of his inhibitions, no longer giving a damn that they’re out in the open on a beach, John releases his hold and slides his hands into the swimming trunks. His fingertips dance over the soft and smooth skin of those perfect cheeks. He pinches them gently and then not so gently. Sherlock gasps in response, his whole body tensing. John smiles rather smugly and looks into his detective’s eyes. He absolutely loves how Sherlock responds to his touch. He’s so sensitive, especially in this particular spot, and it makes him all the more intoxicating. 

John groans and bucks hard against him a second time. Sherlock moans loudly and clutches at the doctor’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the tanned skin stretched over muscle. He pushes himself up from where he had leaned down to kiss John and grinds their cocks together. That’s all it takes. 

John abandons all thought that is not Sherlock - his body, his ass, his hands. He thrusts up and pulls Sherlock down and they rub together. They rub so hard and it feels so good. John sets into a slow rhythm. It feels so incredibly good. Bloody amazing. As the doctor increases the pace, one part of his brain wishes he’d let Sherlock take their trunks off. He looks up at his lover, his beautiful fiance, and lets his mouth fall open. He thrusts harder.

“Fu…uck!” Sherlock cries out suddenly. “Oh god, John. John.” 

John gazes at his lover with dark eyes, drinking in the look of utter pleasure on his beautiful face. He’s such a lucky bastard. How did he even come to meet this gorgeous man? So intelligent, perfect, kind, in spite of how he may seem to those on the outside of his life. What stars collided to bring them together like this? John Watson and Sherlock Holmes friends, colleagues, partners, lovers, and now fiances. God, it’s amazing. John marvels up at his detective, who looks down at him. The silver in his eyes is all but gone and they stare at him in hunger, wanting, needing. John’s brain goes completely offline.

Overcome with desire, John increases his speed once again and thrusts harder still. Sherlock bucks suddenly, uncontrollably, and continues irregularly. He tries to keep John’s pace, but he’s too close to be coordinated and it feels so good he can’t concentrate on anything but pleasure, and John’s face. He hears himself panting furiously, in danger of hyperventilation. It isn’t just him.

They continue to watch one another, teetering on the edge, both ready to tumble over. John looks so beautiful. Full of excited tension and yet, his features also hold a certain relaxed look. Sherlock looks serene and overwhelmed all at once. His pale face is flushed, a drop of water from his wet hair trickles down his temple. Or is it sweat? John wants to lick it from his skin and taste the sweet, salty flavor. He wants to touch every part of Sherlock’s body. He wants to lick Sherlock’s round cheeks and in between and the gorgeous pecking skin within. God, his mouth is watering. His hips are snapping hard. Sherlock’s body shudders. John’s balls tighten. Sherlock moans loudly, obscenely, enthusiastically, deliciously.

Both men shout curses and unintelligible words as they plunge over the edge. The orgasm crashes over them in waves, falling a little each time only to reach new heights the next time. Neither one of them can breathe or think. They can each think of nothing but John...Sherlock...oh god, yes. 

When the waves finally begin to slow, Sherlock lets go of his resolve and collapses upon the compact doctor. Both men still gasp and pant as they try to regain their senses. Sherlock hears a quiet laugh and feels short fingers stroking his wet hair. He purrs at the contact, arching his spine, marveling at the realization that he would be completely content if the rest of his life could be spent with John Watson’s fingers gliding through his curls.

“You’re coming on quite feline all of a sudden,” John laughs breathlessly in Sherlock’s ear and nips at it. Sherlock raises his head to look at John, his eyes full of intense emotion.

“Marry me.”

“We’ve already covered this,” John laughs again.

“Marry me now. Here. Immediately.”

“And risk Mrs. Hudson’s wrath? Not on your life.”

“I want to be your husband now, John.”

The doctor chuckles at Sherlock’s whinging and continues smoothing fingers through his curls.

“And I want you to be, but we already told our friends about the wedding.” Sherlock pouts, his sumptuous lower lip out as far as it will go. John smiles at him sweetly. “We won’t have to wait long. Autumn is right around the corner.”

John laughs yet again when his detective huffs through his frown, rolls his eyes, and drops his head onto John’s chest dramatically. They snuggle together for quite some time until the distinct feeling of drying, crusting swimming trunks becomes more obvious. After exchanging a knowing look, along with one of regret at having to separate, Sherlock pops up and offers John his hand. Once the doctor is on his feet, they continue to hold hands as they walk toward the water. That is, until a wicked smile comes over Sherlock’s face. He suddenly turns to John and pulls him close, ducking his shoulder down and lifting John off his feet in one swift movement. His deep laugh sounds as he jogs toward the waves.

“Sherlock!” John shouts, grabbing at the pale skin of his back and pushing his torso up to try and look at his obnoxious fiance. “Sherlock, put me down!”

Sherlock just continues laughing and splashes into the water.

“Sherlock!”

John keeps yelling as Sherlock walks out into the water until a wave crashes into them, knocking the tall man off his feet and sending both men under. When Sherlock surfaces, John is already standing before him with arms crossed and brows furrowed. Sherlock can tell John isn’t really angry, so he simply shrugs while he wipes water from his face.

“Merely using my height to my advantage.”

John cracks a smile almost immediately and laughs heartily. Sherlock runs his fingers through his dark hair, pulling it back and out of his face. John wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close.

“Of course you are. You mad bastard.”

Sherlock drops his arms to John’s shoulders and presses their lips together. They sink together until only their heads and shoulder-tops are above the water, the waves bobbing them up and down a little.

“Where shall we go this afternoon?” Sherlock asks, gazing at the ocean in John’s sparkling eyes.

“You mean tomorrow,” John corrects him. Sherlock cocks a brow. “Because I intend to shag you into the mattress as soon as we get home.” He kisses into his fiance’s mouth with desire for emphasis. “Then we’ll take a stroll into town, have dinner, walk home, and lay in the grass to watch the stars.”

“Sex by moonlight. I like this holiday, John.”

“I knew you would.”

“We really should do it more often,” he says before catching John’s mouth with his own for a searing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex holiday begins!! I don't know about all of you, but I'm excited! Yippee!! Not only are these parts perhaps The most fun to write, they are a lot of fun to edit too. Oh yeah.
> 
> Looking ahead, I've been trying to even out the ass worship. Really, I've tried, but I have to follow my heart. For those of you who have mentioned it, I concede defeat. I have been informed by a reliable source (not that you aren't all reliable, but I've known this source longer) that I have an ass fetish. .... I believe this to be true. But can you blame me? They're so delightful and round and perfect for my hand to hold. I wholeheartedly admit to ogling my husband's delectable ass at every opportunity. I admit it. I do.
> 
> Anyway, enough about me. On to DP!
> 
> * Oh my god. How much sex are they going to have? Because, because this is hot. H, O, T, HOT. I'm looking forward to more of that and I mean just for reading. You know, because I wouldn't do anything but read when I'm reading that. (clearing his throat and glancing away) Where's my unicorn?  
> * Will their sex holiday remain full of only sex or will they be pulled into a case?  
> * Will any apples appear? God, I hope not.  
> * Yeah, but Jane, still...What's the deal with the apples? They're super creepy and they must mean something.  
> * Oh, and where's my unicorn? 
> 
> There are so many other questions too.  
> When is Mycroft going to start bothering our duo again?  
> What's going to happen with Sally and her attraction to Greg?  
> Will Mrs. Hudson be planning wedding things on her own while her boys are away? And what will John, and especially Sherlock, think of those plans?  
> HOW LONG BEFORE THE WEDDING, JANE??? SERIOUSLY.
> 
> Wait and see, my friends. Wait and see. But, for now, more peaceful fluff.  
> And smut.  
> Oooooo, smut.
> 
> Thank you again for all your love and support! I hope you loved this chapter and enjoy the ones to come.  
> Much love, Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My god, yes, woman! The sex holiday continues!

A few days later finds the detective and his blogger in Padstow. They spend the morning on a boat trip out to Puffin Island. They both enjoy the thick sea air and the voyage immensely, in spite of the rocky waters and constant spray that would have soaked them to the bone were it not for their rented raincoats. So much fun is had that the rather salty sea captain in charge jokes about the couple on their honeymoon over the boat’s intercom. Sherlock’s only response to John’s startled expression is to kiss him, which elicits a round of applause and “Aws” from the other passengers. 

After disembarking, the duo finds a nice pasty shop and then a bench outside to eat. John, who is far hungrier than Sherlock, eats his pasty quickly and rises to dispose of his wrapper in a nearby trash bin. As the paper falls from his fingers, he hears a strained gasp.

“John, help!”

Expecting to see a shadowy figure assaulting his fiance, he turns swiftly with his hands raised for battle. Instead of jumping forward to defend his beloved, a smile breaks across his lips. Two rather persistent seagulls are hovering around the tall man, nipping at both him and his pasty.

“I told you the gulls are out for blood,” he laughs.

“I assumed you meant unattended food!” Sherlock shouts back. John continues to laugh as he watches Sherlock rise and step away from the bench, waving away the birds to no avail. “For god sake, stop laughing and help me.”

“Just drop the pasty. That’s all they want.”

He releases the food with a sneer and watches as the birds devour it and fly away. John laughs good-naturedly and walks to his ruffled fiance, who pouts and looks at him with dark eyes.

“Oh, don’t be that way, babe. Come on. Let’s get you another one and eat it in the shop.”

Minutes later they are seated at a table and the detective is happily eating a second pasty. John watches with a smile on his face, rather delighted by Sherlock’s enthusiasm. So seldom does he show any real interest in eating that seeing him enjoy a meal, especially one so simple, is a real pleasure. Sherlock meets John’s eyes and smiles.

“What?”

“I love you,” he rests his chin in his hand. “You know that, right?”

“I had suspected, yes,” Sherlock answers matter-of-factly, taking another bite. John chuckles. “Let’s talk about the wedding.”

“All right,” John smiles, straightening up. “Let’s talk. You’ve been thinking more about it?”

“With no case and your incessantly long lie-ins the last two days, what else is there to do?”

“Well, if you didn’t keep me up so late every night, I wouldn’t need a lie-in,” John gives him a suggestive look that Sherlock returns with burning come hither eyes that go straight to John’s cock and set it twitching. “Damn you for knowing just how to get under my skin.”

“And in your trousers,” the taller man finishes quietly.

“Sherlock,” John warns, giving him a stern look. Sherlock leans forward and kisses him, the taste of steak and stilton on his lips.

“Consider it a promise of upcoming events.”

“Mmm. I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m counting on it.” They brush noses and then Sherlock pulls back, lounging comfortably in his seat and taking another bite. “I thought autumn colors. Flowers mixed with leaves and berries to decorate. Perhaps the ceremony under the archway in the garden. The turning leaves on the trees and bushes will lend the perfect backdrop.”

John looks at him with fond and somewhat surprised eyes. He lets out a breathy, little laugh. Sherlock gives him a confused look.

“Problem?”

“No. Not at all. I just never imagined you’d be so into this. You hate this kind of social convention.”

“Yes, but it means something to you and, if I’m truthful, it means something to me too now. I want our friends to know how much you mean to me. To share in our happiness.”

“I’m pretty sure they already know.”

“John,” Sherlock frowns at his fiance, “you are only making my case for immediate elopement stronger.”

John throws his head back with a laugh from deep in his belly and Sherlock can’t help but smile.

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop,” grinning, he leans forward with his elbows on the table. “What else do you have in mind?”

Sherlock smiles and leans in as well, his pasty finished. He continues to relate his thoughts to John, getting more and more excited as he goes. His doctor’s smile broadens as he speaks. Neither of them notice the blonde man sitting at a table across the shop watching them carefully over his book.

***

John looks out over the sea and inhales the wet air deeply. Sherlock smiles as he watches John grin infectiously. He looks over at the detective and extends a hand. Sherlock takes it readily and stands next to the shorter man, looking out at the waves below their perch.

The two men stand on a very tall, grassy hill that overlooks a beach. The edge of the hill seems like a sharp drop-off, but it is only a few feet before the ground slopes downward to the beach far below. John and Sherlock started a walk through the hills and pastures along the shoreline after leaving the shop. The conversation and periodic stops for kissing and teasing lasted them all afternoon until they found themselves on this hill. Behind them are Padstow and the docks. A few minutes of walking and they will be back in their car heading for the cottage. Seems the perfect time, in John’s opinion, to stop and admire the view.

“God, it’s beautiful here,” he looks around with a smile on his face. “We really should come back here for our honeymoon.”

Sherlock shifts his weight and gently strokes his thumb over John’s hand.

“I thought perhaps we should wait on a honeymoon since we’ve just had this holiday.”

“You’re not serious,” John turns his head to look at Sherlock, his eyes filled with doubt.

“I am, yes. If we wait a bit we could go to the continent. Maybe Italy or Spain for a few weeks.”

John turns to face him fully, glancing down at his lips for a moment and then back up to his eyes. He smiles fondly at Sherlock.

“Do you speak Italian?”

“Oh, yes,” he replies casually, as if everyone does what he does, “I speak both languages.”

“How many do you speak fluently?”

“Sixteen.”

“Oh, just sixteen,” John snorts.

“Well, twenty-two, actually, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent in the others,” he shrugs John snorts in laughter again and the detective continues. “It’s easy for me to absorb facts and details. It’s very handy for learning languages. Verb conjugations and the like.”

“Easy for you to absorb information, you say? I hadn’t noticed,” John laughs at Sherlock’s incredulous expression and steps into his personal space. His hands wrap around the man’s narrow waist. Sherlock mirrors the movement and leans into John. “You are truly amazing.”

“I’m glad you think so since you’ll be stuck with me for quite some time.”

“I look forward to every minute.”

John extends his feet to his tiptoes and kisses Sherlock full on the mouth. It starts sweet and slow, but quickly becomes heated. Sherlock’s talented tongue slides across John’s lower lip, asking permission. The doctor’s lips part, his own tongue venturing out and finding its mate anxious to stroke and taste and lick every surface. The moan that slips out is stifled in Sherlock’s throat. He pulls his doctor close, grabbing a handful of shirt in each hand.

Sherlock tilts his head to deepen the kiss. John moans again, responsive as ever. His hands pull the back of Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers and then slide under to splay across the small of his back. Sherlock’s skin is on fire under John’s warm touch. A moan of his own passes over John’s lips as they part for seconds of breath before Sherlock presses his to John’s again. His tongue explores and teases. The heat radiating off his fiance’s body is intoxicating. He bends his body so John can rest his feet flat on the ground and then keeps going. He cradles and supports John’s body until the two lie together in the tall grass. John on his back and Sherlock beside him, his torso over John’s chest. He breaks away from those delicious lips and pushes himself up to look into John’s eyes.

“I want you, John. I need you.”

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock.”

The detective lowers himself down onto John’s mouth again and then moves down his neck. He nips at John’s soft lower lip and then down, down to the collar of his shirt. His fingers adeptly pop loose the buttons of the doctor’s shirt. He pulls it from jeans and spreads it wide so John’s broad chest and taut belly are exposed. Sherlock wants to run his tongue along every muscle and taste every inch of skin. He stops to look up into his fiance’s eyes, blown wide with lust. A sly smile graces his lips and he lowers his head to mouth his way to John’s right nipple.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John gasps as fingertips close around the other nipple. “Jesus.”

Sherlock continues with his ministrations, eventually licking his way to that stomach, tight with pleasure. On a whim, he flattens his tongue against the skin immediately above the waistband of John’s jeans and licks up to his navel. His fiance’s back arches and hips thrust involuntarily. Sherlock smiles against the warm skin. His fingers open John’s flies and zip, and quickly pull him from jeans and pants. Sherlock glides his tongue around and over the head, licking at the slit luxuriously. It is gorgeous. Smooth and velvety. God, how Sherlock loves this man’s penis. He licks again.

“Fuck, yes. Yes.”

Sherlock’s tongue trails down the shaft and back up again, flat all the way. He repeats this several times, stopping to tease the head or lick at John’s balls where they are cradled in his hand.

“Oh, god!” John moans loudly. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

Sherlock swallows him down and sucks, hollowing his cheeks. His head bobs, his tongue twisting this way and that. John’s body writhes beneath him, stuttering, trembling. He knows John won’t last long, even before he says it.

“Sherlock. I’m not... I won’t last. Much longer. Ah!”

A hot spurt floods into Sherlock’s mouth and he swallows quickly to allow room for more as John comes hard. Three more times John releases and Sherlock takes care of it each time as he sucks lightly, bringing John through his orgasm. The doctor’s body goes slack, but his arms stay strong and pull Sherlock up to meet his lips. It is a messy kiss, but warm and soft. When their lips part, their eyes meet.

“Jesus Christ, that was fantastic.”

“And out in the open grass no less,” Sherlock grins. “How do I get away with these things?”

John kisses him again and rests his hand on Sherlock’s firm ass, pulling their hips together. God, that ass.

“No, John.”

“Yes.”

“You can have your turn at the cottage.” John frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock quiets him with two fingers over his lips. “I want you inside me,” he almost whispers, pausing to smile lasciviously, “under the stars.”

A grin spreads across John’s lips. He kisses Sherlock deeply.

“Yes, please. I know just the blanket I want to lay you on. Pun intended.”

The detective laughs quietly and then tucks John back into his pants. He does up the jeans and looks into John’s dark blue eyes.

“Shall we go? It will be getting dark just as we get home,” he helps John sit up and pulls a piece of grass from his blonde hair. John gives him a very serious expression.

“I’ll drive.”

***

John wakes to an empty bed the next morning. Yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he pulls on a white tee and striped pajama pants that turn out to be Sherlock’s. They are much too long for him and end up under his bare feet when he pads to the ensuite. Ignoring the pajamas completely, he uses the toilet and then cleans his teeth. He hasn’t heard a sound in the cottage since getting out of bed and, even though Sherlock is typically relatively quiet, John is beginning to wonder where his fiance has gone. 

When John walks into the kitchen, he expects to find his mad detective sitting at the table, but he is not there. Sherlock Holmes is not in the cottage. John shrugs and goes to the stove to start water for tea. While it boils, he makes himself some toast and covers it with marmalade. He notices a mug and plate in the sink when he gets his own from the cupboard. So Sherlock did not leave on an empty stomach. Not quite the norm, but he has been better about eating enough to sustain himself since their holiday began.

John sits at the table quietly with his breakfast and reads the London news on his mobile. It appears as though a recent murder has police stymied, if the headlines are to be believed. Greg is the lead investigator and is likely pleased this is their last day in Cornwall. John sighs and looks around the room. The last two weeks have been pure heaven. A much-needed ‘sex holiday’, as Sherlock calls it, but it will feel good to be back home at 221B.

John rises from the table and places his plate in the sink with Sherlock’s. Where could he be? John steps over to the stove to make another cup of tea. As he waits for the tea to steep, a pair of warm hands curl around his hips. A breath blows across his ear as lips ghost around its shell and nip at its lobe.

“Morning, honey,” a deep baritone slithers silkily into his ear. Smiling, John tilts his head for better access. Sherlock responds immediately, pressing light kisses on John’s jawline and down his neck.

“Honey?” John questions.

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about your term of endearment for me and decided what mine would be for you.”

“Ah. So, honey?”

“Would you rather I call you marmalade?”

“Thanks, no,” John laughs. “Honey is just fine.”

He turns in Sherlock’s arms and kisses him full on his plump lips. He nibbles at the bottom one and then pulls away, giggling at the pout he leaves behind. John smiles up at Sherlock, sliding his hands onto his fiance’s broad shoulders.

“Did you go to town?” he asks.

“I did,” Sherlock replies, resting his large hands on John’s hips. “We bought clothes to wear while on holiday, but no cases to put them in for the trip home.”

“I thought that might be what you were up to. It’s so perfect here, but I’d like to be home again.”

“Indeed.”

“I suppose you already know all about the case Greg is working on,” John watches his own fingers as they flick along Sherlock’s open collar.

“No, nor do I want to.”

John’s eyes snap up to meet Sherlock’s and widen at the detective’s genuine look of disinterest. He lays a hand on Sherlock’s forehead and then rests it on one cheek. Sherlock frowns in response.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Hmph. Very amusing,” the detective remarks, narrowing his eyes. He turns into John’s hand and nips at his fingers playfully. “I am on sex holiday, John, and do not intend to do anything but until we reach London tomorrow afternoon.”

John grins in a pleased kind of surprise. The taller man tightens his grip on John’s hips and pulls him close so he can feel Sherlock’s rather sizable erection against his body. John gasps quietly and his deep blue eyes dilate on the spot.

“I love your surprises,” John tells him in a thoughtful voice. “You’ve changed so much since I met you.”

“I have,” the detective agrees, searching his doctor’s eyes. “I hope you approve.”

“I do.”

The words send a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. The day will soon come when John will say them again in front of all their closest friends and they will be husbands. Suddenly so full of emotion he feels he might burst, Sherlock leans in close and presses a kiss to John’s soft lips. The kiss is chaste and warm and perfect. Sherlock’s lips part to let a sigh escape his throat and John’s tongue tentatively touches with just its tip.

Sherlock responds immediately, opening his mouth wider and welcoming in John’s licks and bites. Their tongues slide together along perfect teeth, twirling around each other. Sherlock gasps when John’s hands, which the detective had completely lost track of, slowly shift from his narrow hips to his back side. Sherlock smiles against John’s lips as the doctor grips its delicious, round surface. 

“God, I want to bite it,” John growls. His hot breath rushing over Sherlock’s lips as he pants the words. The shorter man’s left hand flies up to cup Sherlock’s cheek, absurd cheekbone and all, while his right grasps the lithe man’s ass, pulling their bodies together tightly. As they share a heated kiss, John lifts one leg and wraps it around the detective. His aim is Sherlock’s waist, but he is inhibited by his diminutive stature. He lets out a quick curse and nearly climbs up the man’s body. A deep chuckle rumbles from Sherlock’s chest and goes straight to John’s cock. Opening his eyes and giving John a wicked grin, he turns his attention to the doctor’s neck. Lavishing the delicate skin with attention in just the way that turns John’s knees to jelly, and feeling his own knees weakening in tandem, Sherlock demands in a low whisper.

“Tell me you want me.”

“I do,” John assures him in a breathy voice. “I do want you.”

“Where do you want me?” he whispers.

“Under me,” he kisses his fiance roughly. “Inside you.”

Even as incredibly aroused as he is, his trousers holding his cock tighter than he can remember, Sherlock can’t help laughing in that deep baritone. It is rich and sinuous in John’s ears. He hums in approval as Sherlock pulls his head back to look John in the eye.

“I was referring to a location within this cottage,” he says with a sparkle in his silver eyes, “but that will do.”

He claims John’s smiling lips again before he can utter a word and starts backing toward the door to the hall, pulling the doctor with him. Determined not to allow even a millimeter of space between them, John follows closely. He hasn’t even dropped his leg from where it curls around Sherlock’s thighs. He simply adjusts its hold to one thigh and hops along with the detective.

As they near the door, John loses his balance and falls into Sherlock knocking the man’s back up against the wall hard. The kissing stops and they look at each other with startled eyes. John is clutching Sherlock’s broad shoulders to steady himself. Sherlock’s hands are doing much the same in an attempt to keep the doctor from falling. Both are low on John’s body, one grasping his ass and the other holding the leg that is wrapped around his own.

“Are you okay?” John asks him. Sherlock lets out a deep, open-mouthed breath and nods with a grin.

“Oh god, yes.”

John’s eyes widen when he hears his own words, words he has uttered so many times, repeated back to him in that gorgeous voice. And it is that moment in which every shred of restraint is abandoned. 

Cupping the detective’s cheeks, John holds his head steady while his own lips and teeth kiss and nip at that gorgeous mouth. Sherlock’s big hands are still firmly gripping John’s ass and leg. Somewhere in his mind he notes the absence of pants beneath the thin pajamas that separate his skin from the smooth skin of John’s cheek and, in a flurry of movement, both hands are under the elastic waistband.

John smiles against his mouth, the intensity of their kisses growing. John’s skin feels hot beneath Sherlock’s fingers. About halfway up the stairs to the second floor, he sneaks between those luscious cheeks and brushes his middle finger across John’s hole.

“Oh, god!” the doctor’s knees buckle, but Sherlock keeps him steady. John fixes him with flinty eyes and his voice is a low growl. “That, Sherlock Holmes, is not allowed.”

The detective’s pupils expand and completely overtake the silver irises that surround them. His breaths begin coming in quick pants and his fingers dig into John’s tender flesh. John can feel the man’s rock hard cock pressed against his belly and he grins wickedly. Sherlock Holmes has a kink. A military kink and this morning, John intends to use it to his advantage. 

Minutes later, the two men stumble their way into the bedroom. Stopping at the foot of the bed, John stands firmly on both feet before Sherlock and adopts a captain’s tone.

“Let go of my ass,” he commands. 

Sherlock obeys instantly, if not reluctantly, dropping his hands from the shorter man’s body. He licks his lips, curious to see what John will do next. John cocks a brow, that wicked grin growing, and he pushes his fiance down on the bed. The moment Sherlock’s back touches the duvet, John has stripped off his tee and stands topless before him. By this time, his pajamas are riding so low on his hips that blonde curls draw the detective’s gaze to where the head of John’s cock strains against the wet fabric just below the elastic. Knowing what he is looking at, John feels his arousal spike and he speaks in a dangerous growl.

“Take off your clothes.”

Again, Sherlock complies. He sits up and throws his suit jacket off his own shoulders with all the flare of a stripper. He then pulls it from his own body and tosses it aside. The remainder of his clothing quickly follows, and in much the same way. Sherlock leans back to rest on his elbows and watches as John lets his eyes roam over the entire length of his body. 

Sherlock smiles lasciviously again and beckons to John with a tilt of his head. John drops his pajama bottoms, climbs onto the bed, and crawls over Sherlock’s body. He starts low on Sherlock’s belly, just above the head of his leaking cock and slowly mouths his way up the warm, pale skin until he reaches the man’s chest. Goose flesh covers Sherlock’s skin as he watches every movement with anticipation, licking his lips, his already shallow breaths quickening. When John’s face is even with his fiance’s pectorals, John looks at him with hungry eyes just before diving for a hard nipple, his tongue licking at it luxuriously. Stars explode behind Sherlock’s eyes, wide and unseeing.

“OH GOD!” he shouts, throwing his head back. His spine arching off the mattress, Sherlock comes right then and there, completely untouched. He thrusts up at John’s body a handful of times, crying out his name as he does it, clutching at his waist and his ass. Breathing hard, Sherlock pushes up into John one last time. One last ribbon of semen spurts from his cock, making both of their bellies slick with it. 

Sherlock lets his body fall back down on the mattress in ecstacy and exhaustion. His head lying back as he breathes hard, his long neck exposed. John crawls up his body and presses open-mouthed kisses to his fiance’s pulse points. Sherlock swallows hard, gasping and panting.  John is breathing pretty hard himself at this point. He licks and bites at that long, glorious neck as he mutters to Sherlock.

“Can I touch you? Can I open you?”

“Yes. Yes!” Sherlock gasps, lifting his head and kissing John messily. He bites at Sherlock’s tongue while it licks at his teeth and lips. Gradually, John wriggles his way out of the detective’s arms and rises from the bed. His fiance furrows his brow and gives him a sour look as he watches him move to the dresser. John arches a brow, opens the top drawer, and withdraws a bottle of lube.

In a blink, the doctor comes back to rest his body on the taller man. John immediately covers Sherlock’s long column of neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses and hints of bites, voicing little moans as he goes. Sherlock’s mind seizes for a moment under the pleasure of John’s lips, his sounds. It’s gorgeous. It’s fucking gorgeous. John Watson is a goddamn genius and he is Sherlock’s. He is Sherlock’s forever.

Wrangling his thoughts back to the here and now is made easier when John’s kisses stop and he pulls back to sit on his knees in between Sherlock’s long legs. Sherlock watches as he pops open the lube bottle and coats his fingers. John’s lips curl up as he demands in a soft voice.

“Spread your legs.”

Sherlock thinks his heart is going to burst, that his entire body is going to explode into a puddle of desire. Slowly, he inches his legs apart and bites his lip as John swirls one slick finger around his puckered hole. He squeezes his eyes tight shut. The sensation of all those nerve endings on fire with pleasure. Moments later that single, and very skilled finger, enters him.

“Oh god oh god oh god!” he shouts. His body lurches and he pushes up on his elbows so he can see everything John is doing. “More. More now!”

“Patience, babe, patience,” John shushes him, earning a glare from the detective. An expression that quickly changes when John begins to slide his finger in and out. Another joins it. Sherlock’s jaw drops and spine arches, pushing his bum more fully onto John’s hand.

As a third finger enters, John’s other hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s chest, fingers giving his nipple a light pinch.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck!” the taller man grits his teeth and meets John’s dark eyes, filled with want. “Now, John. Yes, yes. Now.”

To his surprise, John’s fingers slide out of Sherlock’s body without protest. The detective watches, his mouth watering, as John strokes lube onto his own cock. Never taking his eyes off of Sherlock, he shifts up onto his hands and knees and lines up over his fiance, his cock nudging at Sherlock. He presses forward and slips easily into Sherlock with a sigh.

“Yesssss….” the detective hisses.

“Oh,” John whispers breathlessly. “Oh, shit. So good.”

He starts slowly, luxuriously, delivering unimaginable pleasure. The silky head of his cock touching Sherlock’s prostate every time. Without really thinking, Sherlock finds himself murmuring filthy words of encouragement. John closes his eyes for a second or two, trying to escape from those words and that beautiful face, if only for a moment. John knows he won’t last long after watching Sherlock come to fantastically. He damn near lost all control when Sherlock threw his head back in ecstasy, his mouth falling open and his gorgeous neck on display for John to devour, but John had reigned himself in for this. This is exactly how he wanted to begin their last day on holiday.

He drops a kiss to Sherlock’s parted lips and speeds up, only to slow down a minute later. The detective looks at him with dark eyes, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Oh, you are evil,” he pants.

John’s own lips twitch into a smile and he speeds up again. Soon Sherlock’s hands are grasping John’s hips tight enough to leave bruises. He matches the man’s thrusts and grunts, his talented doctor hitting his prostate every time. Finally, John throws his head back and thrusts with all his might one last time. Sherlock’s face mirrors his with eyes wide open and mouth open with intense pleasure. He meets John’s final thrust while pulling those sexy hips toward his own, drawing his lover in deeper. John’s body quakes with the force of his orgasm and suddenly Sherlock is coming too. Neither of them had really even realized he was hard again. As John spills into Sherlock and Sherlock spurts over his own belly and chest, a stream of uncharacteristic curses spills from the detective’s lips.

“Fuck fuck fucking jesus god christ fuuuuuuuuuck!”

John joins him for the last word, letting his body abruptly fall onto his fiance’s narrow frame when they both finish shouting the word together. Breathing hard, he mouths at the spot where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder. A little surprised by the outburst, John lets out a breathy laugh a moment later and pushes up a bit to look at his detective.

“All right, babe?” Sherlock meets his eyes. “That was quite the diatribe.”

“You, John Watson,” he replies, swallowing hard between pants, “are delicious.”

“Well, that’s a first,” he grins. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Have I not mentioned it before?”

John rests his chest against his lover’s and reaches up to stroke his fingers through tousled curls.

“I don’t think so.”

“Hm. A clear oversight. I shall have to make it up to you.”

John laughs, continuing with those luscious curls.

“I think you just did.”

“Nonsense.”

John lays his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and nuzzles in close. The detective wraps his long arms around his flatmate’s shoulders and torso.

“That was amazing,” John breathes softly. Sherlock smiles peacefully and kisses John’s hair. They remain this way in comfortable silence for some time until John eventually rises and wipes them down with a damp flannel. Once they are clean, Sherlock pulls him back into bed and manhandles him back into the same position. They start talking about wedding arrangements and the drive home tomorrow. They talk about Greg, who finally seems to be doing better after the debacle with Mary, and they talk about Mycroft and Molly. When they both grow quiet, Sherlock sighs and turns his head to look at John with a grin.

“Ready for another go?”

“Another…Jesus, Sherlock.”

“This is our last day on sex holiday and I intend to spend it all in bed with you,” he replies indignantly. John cocks a brow, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“Just in bed?”

A grin finds the detective’s lips again, his shining silver eyes brimming with adoration and happiness. It is the kind of feeling he never thought he would experience, but now, with John, his whole world has changed. Not only will it never be the same, Sherlock doesn’t want it to ever go back to what it was. He thought he was happy enough, but now he knows better. He brushes his fingers over John’s cheekbone and along his jawline lovingly, his grin widening.

“Mmm. Not necessarily,” he answers mischievously. John returns his grin and presses a kiss to his full lips, lightly pulling his lower lip as he pulls away.

“I’m definitely up for that.”

“So you are,” Sherlock remarks, raising his brows. Both men laugh and then catch each other’s mouths in slow kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, friends? They're so cute and in love and active in their sexual lives. And we now know that John will use Sherlock's military kink to his advantage. I'd say full advantage, but I think he could've done more this time around and chose not to. Who knows about next time though. One of my favorite lines of this chapter: "God, I want to bite it." You know what I mean. Oooooo.  
> And, if you don't remember that particular phrase, you are dead to me. :D
> 
> So, this is their last sex holiday day. We all know they'll make good use of it. Oh, yes! I'll try to get the next chapter out as soon as I can. I was way ahead with editing, but I've caught up now. Entonces, I have some serious editing to do before I can post anything more. Don't worry, I won't forget all of you, but I have some long nights ahead. Thank you all for your love and support. You make this even more of a joy than it already is and you all mean the world to me.  
> Much love, Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Friends. I thought I'd posted this chapter already and wondered why no one had said anything about yet. Imagine my surprise when I checked on this Part and found that there was no chapter 4 post. Ha. Maybe I dreamed that I did it? Who knows. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> The detective and his blogger return home. Yay!  
> Now Sherlock can put his wedding plans into action.

John’s mobile sounds right as Sherlock steps out of the cottage to put their cases in the rental car. Starting a walk-through to make sure they haven’t forgotten anything, John takes it from his coat pocket and sees that it’s Sarah Sawyer.

“Sarah, how are you?” John smiles as he speaks into the phone. “How’s that beautiful baby of yours?”

“Hi, John. She’s perfect, as usual. How are you?”

“I am fantastic, actually.”

“Good. That’s excellent. You and Sherlock got some rest? Or has he been chasing down cases the whole time?”

“Not a single one. It’s been wonderful. Like a honeymoon, really. I’ll never forget this place. “

“Oh. So you’re still there then,” Sarah sounds hesitant and a bit nervous. John wrinkles his brow, but says nothing.

“Yes, but just about to leave.”

Sarah is quiet on the other end and John stops in the sitting room with a hand on his hip, catching a glimpse of a pair of bright red pants he knows to be Sherlock’s favorites peeking out from under the sofa. He bends down to pick them up and makes a mental note to get a good look under there for more articles of clothing, then gives Sarah his full attention. He has known her long enough to know her guilt silence.

“Sarah, is something wrong?” he asks. There’s a little laugh on the line and a deep intake of breath.

“I swear you’ve spent too much time with him,” she remarks with a sigh. “I need a favor. I feel terrible asking before you’ve even come back. Or just as you came back, for that matter.”

“What is it? Please say babysitting.”

“I wish I could say yes,” she laughs, “but it’s the surgery.”

“You need a shift?”

“Yes. Tonight.” John blinks his eyes wide as she continues speaking at an unbelievable pace. “I’m so sorry, John, but Janet is out of town for her daughter’s wedding and Robert is sick and this is the one night in the week that the surgery’s open late. I’d do it by myself and just call in more of the aids to help, but no one’s answering. It’s just me, Jack, and Elsa.

“Slow down,” John finally gets a word in edgewise. “I can be there by 4. Is that early enough?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s perfect!” she gasps. “God, John, thank you. I’m so sorry about this. I would never call if I wasn’t shit up a creek.”

“It’s no trouble, Sarah. Just know you owe us a visit with Madeleine.“

“Done,” she quips with a smile in her voice. “Thanks so much, John.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you later. Ta,” John hits end and pockets the mobile.

“Was that Greg? I have been resolutely ignoring his calls.”

John turns to see his fiance standing in the doorway.

“So I’ve noticed,” he smirks. He gets on his knees and peers under the sofa, finding a black sock. Getting back to his feet and walking toward Sherlock, he holds up the red pants. “We nearly left these behind.”

The detective pretends he doesn’t care, but John can see the shadow of pique in his eyes and smiles as he presses them into Sherlock’s hand. The detective shoves them in his pocket and looks down at John, cocking his brow.

“Greg will seek out our help with the triple murder case as soon as we enter the city.”

“Oh, will he?” John’s voice is playfully. “So you have done a little looking after all.”

Sherlock shrugs as he rests his hands on John’s hips and gives him a quick, soft kiss.

“You were having a ridiculously long lie-in. I needed something to do before I woke you for farewell sex.”

John smiles at the memory and gives the man in his arms a squeeze.

“And we’ll need to have welcome home sex after you’ve solved the case.”

“After **I’ve** solved it?” he answers speculatively. “Just me?”

“Yeah,” he looks up at Sherlock apologetically. “That was Sarah. The surgery is open until eight and it’s just her and a couple of the medical aids. Sorry.”

Sherlock pouts with those glorious lips that John can’t help but kiss and then suck lightly. A low moan rises from Sherlock’s throat and he pulls John’s hips close to his own. When the doctor leans back to meet Sherlock’s eyes, he sees pools of silver mischief.

“We are definitely having sex as soon as I return home.”

John laughs as Sherlock presses another kiss to his lips and then leads him out of the cottage by the hand. They both stand before the small two-story and grin. Sherlock tilts his head a little and gives John a sideways look. John turns to see a knowing smile playing at Sherlock’s lips and laughs again. The detective joins in and then kisses his doctor once more. When their chuckles die down, Sherlock slides his arms around John’s body and faces him adoringly.

“Let’s go home.”

***

“Thanks, Sherlock,” Greg is saying as he and the detective watch Sally Donovan and two uniformed officers drag the author of the triple murder case to a police car and push him inside. “Will John be home waiting?”

Sherlock reads 10:30 on his mobile and nods at the DI.

“Most certainly. The surgery closed its doors at eight o’clock. Even after finishing up the last patients and paperwork, he’d have been home at least an hour ago.”

“Best be off then.”

“Indeed. Good evening, Greg,” Sherlock says with a congenial smile.

“Night.”

Sherlock catches a cab and sets off for Baker Street. He removes his mobile from his coat pocket and types out a message.

_ On my way. Greet me naked, if convenient. SH _

He looks out of the window for a moment, watching as people hurry in and out of the streetlights that illuminate the dark night. Smiling to himself, he sends John another message.

_ If not convenient, greet me naked anyway. SH  _

Sherlock pockets the mobile and looks out the window again. Now that they are back in London, he can actually arrange their wedding instead of just discussing it. The date they settled on in Cornwall is just under two months away, so he must get invitations out to the small group they intend to invite. Sherlock gazes thoughtfully at the darkened sidewalks. He knows a calligrapher who could quickly make the handful he and John need. With Mrs. Hudson’s help, they could be in the hands of their guests within the next few days.

He resolves to make the design he already has stored in his mind palace digital in the morning and then send it to his friend. Friend? Sherlock frowns slightly. He has used that word to describe people he’s known for some time quite a bit of late. He never thought he had friends before meeting John, and was absolutely convinced that John was his only one. It certainly seemed true at the time, when they solved the Baskerville case. Then John got him to see how Greg felt about him. And Angelo and so many others. 

Angelo. A part of Sherlock would like to ask Angelo to cater the wedding, but he’d rather see the man simply attend and enjoy himself. Fortunately, Sherlock knows just the place to do it and transporting the food to the Holmes property will be no trouble at all since it is located in a village nearby.

The detective methodically moves down a checklist he has been keeping since John agreed to be his husband. Every item is something he had thought of in advance of the question, but Sherlock had not written a proper list in his mind palace until John said yes. Sherlock smiles to himself as he plans to order the flowers and decorations, the cake, the music. Aside from his own, of course. He has been writing a piece for violin and will play it just before their first dance as husbands. Sherlock’s lips curl into a wider smile as he sees himself and John dancing together slowly in the eyes of all their friends. He catches himself sighing quietly and rolls his eyes. He was once beyond such sentimentality. What has John Watson done to him?

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock doesn’t notice the cab has stopped until its driver informs him in a rather loud, but friendly voice. Sherlock pays the man and climbs out of the car. He glances at his mobile as he approaches the door to the building and sees that John never texted him back. Not even one of those eye-rolling emojis he is so fond of. Sherlock shrugs and unlocks the door.

When he steps into 221B a minute later, the beaming face and naked body dripping of pure sex that he expects to see are not there. He cannot even begin to describe his disappointment and has every intention of telling John so, but then he realizes that the flat, in fact, appears to be completely dark. Sherlock sheds his coat and scarf, and toes off his shoes. He rounds the corner to their bedroom, imaging John waiting for him in the bed with not a stitch on his glorious body, but the light at the end of the hall is also turned off. The detective silently continues on his quest for the short doctor. The surgery must have been packed and, coupled with the day’s long drive, John must have been exhausted and gone straight to bed. He would’ve had no idea when Sherlock would arrive home, after all.

Sherlock quietly enters the room, eyes immediately finding the bed. The room is barely lit by a streetlight that is obscured by thin curtains, but even in the dim light, Sherlock can tell that the bed is empty. He flips on the light switch and frowns. Looking to his left, he sees their still unpacked cases next to the door. There is no lingering humidity from the shower John always takes after a shift at the surgery to rid himself of antiseptic and other associated stenches. The scents of his soap and shampoo are absent as well. Nor is there the spiced smell of take away. 

The detective move across the room and into the ensuite. He considers where John might be as he answers the call of nature. Perhaps John is down with Mrs. Hudson. They have been away for over two weeks and they both immediately rushed away to work as soon as they returned home. It wouldn’t surprise Sherlock at all to find that she had intercepted the doctor when he walked into the building. If that was the case, John would likely be unable to escape at a reasonable time no matter how hard he tried.

Even though this seems the most likely answer, Sherlock considers another possibility as he washes his hands. Perhaps John is out with Sarah. Perhaps she took him out for a drink or dinner in an act of gratitude. John would not text him back in such a situation to keep from being rude, but surely he would if one of them had gone to the loo or something. Sherlock crinkles his brow as he considers this and is startled when a ring from his mobile crashes into the silence of the flat. He pulls it from his pocket and reads the name across the screen. Not John. Perhaps another case?

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answers firmly. The DI does not speak immediately, but Sherlock can hear the voice of Sally Donovan telling him the details of a crime scene in the background. A case then. Greg had said during the triple murder investigation that there had been a rash of crimes before they went to Cornwall and it had become even worse once he and Sally had returned. Sherlock narrows his eyes minutely when he hears Sally stop abruptly to say ‘That’s him?’

“Sherlock,” the DI sounds quiet and nervous, not like he typically sounds when calling for a case. It’s not how he sounds anytime he phones Sherlock at all, and there’s something else. Sherlock’s brow rises as he hears it in Greg’s voice. Greg is worried. Greg is scared. “Sherlock, I need you at the surgery now. It’s John.”

Sherlock’s heart goes cold, every muscle in his body instantly tense. The color drains from his already pale face and his mouth goes dry. The mobile trembles at his ear, his hands shaking now. He swallows quickly and finds his voice. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, using every ounce of effort to keep his voice steady. His heart stops as he listens to what Greg has to say.

***

Sherlock waits impatiently in the cab, tapping his foot on the car floor and looking anxiously across the front seat out the windshield. He slides up the seat to perch on its edge when the cab slows to a stop. There are flashing police lights four or five blocks ahead and a line of cars in between. The cabby’s gruff voice remarks that the detective would get to his destination faster on foot just in time to turn and see two bills float into the front seat with him. He looks out the side window to see his former passenger running down the pavement toward the lights. The driver shrugs and turns on his radio.

Sherlock arrives at the surgery in minutes, bumper to bumper traffic all along his run. Police cars and ambulances block most of the street, leaving only one lane and officers directing. Police tape is draped around the building’s entrance with officers everywhere. Sherlock stops dead when he sees Sally Donovan pacing by the tape a few feet from the surgery’s door. An officer steps up to tell her something as Sherlock approaches. She gives him a stern nod and a few terse words, the detective catching her eye when the officer hurries away. Sally nods at Sherlock in a similar way and raises the tape for him to enter. They walk briskly to the door.

“Where is she?” he asks her firmly.

“Inside. There are two others,” she pauses in front of the surgery’s front door, her hand on the handle and ready to pull it open. He looks at her and she returns it grimly. “Both dead.”

She opens the door wide and lets him walk in first. Sherlock glances around the waiting room full of pleasantly upholstered chairs with an occasional table for magazines, a water cooler next to the door leading to the examination rooms. In front of him is a tall reception counter. Anderson’s minions are everywhere, dusting and peering.

“She’s back there,” Sally points to the water cooler door.

They start across the room. Sherlock looks toward reception as they go and observes two techs on their knees next to a woman lying dead on the floor. Shot expertly in the chest. Straight through the heart. Professional.

Sally leads him through the door and into the hall of exam and supply rooms, public loos, and offices. Several techs are moving in and out of an exam room a few doors down and to the right. Sherlock can hear Anderson speaking loudly over the din.

“The other medical aid is down there,” Sally fills in the obvious blanks. “Shot just like the other one.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at her, but sees past her instead. Down this side of the hall, techs are going in and out of doors, stepping around two officers standing guard at John’s office door. He strides toward it quickly with Sally at his heels. Blood is smeared on the floor and the wall from the office door to one of the exam rooms. Sherlock picks up his already swift pace, stopping at the door just as Greg Lestrade comes out of it. The DI’s hand is at the base of his own neck, having just run it through his salt and pepper hair. His brown eyes are wide as he meets the detective’s sharp silver gaze.

“She’s asking for you,” he says without preamble. “It’s bad.”

“And John?”

“He’s gone.”

Greg steps into the office and the other two follow. Paramedics surround Sarah Sawyer where she lies on the floor next to John’s desk in a pool of blood. Sherlock can see at a glance that it is too much to be only her own, in spite of her obvious wounds. She has been shot twice, once high in the shoulder and the other in the opposite thigh. Not fatal unless she were to lose consciousness without calling for help. Even then, it would take hours. The intention was not to kill. At least, not right away. 

Sarah is clearly in a lot of pain and is also incredibly annoyed. She is mouthing off to the medics and being generally uncooperative as Sherlock comes near. Her unabashed curses, not typically used in her daily life, make Sherlock think of John. For the first time, he can see why John likes her so much. Her eyes widen the instant she sees him over the shoulder of a medic. She orders the woman out of the way and beckons to Sherlock. Her expression is somewhere between relief and terror.

“God, John,” she blurts, pain in her voice. “They took him, Sherlock. They took him.”

“Slow down, Doctor,” one of the medics interjects. “You need to relax.”

“Fuck off! I’m fine!” she barks and turns back to Sherlock, face full of worry. “He shot him. The blonde one. He was losing so much blood.” Sherlock squats at her side and she clutches desperately at his arm. “I tried to convince them to let me help, but they wouldn’t listen. Just dragged him to the exam room to bandage him up. He was already going into shock. Sherlock, he’ll die without surgery. He has to get that bullet out. It’s in nearly the same place as the war wound.”

“The two men. What did they look like?” Sherlock tries to keep his voice steady. He will do no good for John if he cannot keep his wits about him, but the truth is that Sherlock has never been more frightened in his life. With, that is, the exception of two other times. One lasted for a week and the other for 47 days. Sherlock barrels ahead, pushing those thoughts away. “Tell me what they said,  **exactly** what they said.”

Sarah is still, but for a hard shiver through her body. Her hand squeezes tighter on Sherlock’s arm and her eyes bore into his with a piercing cold.

“He told me to give you a message,” her voice is full of dread. Sherlock cocks a brow. “He had dark hair and gave the orders. He said he was a long, lost love of John’s.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. His eyes are pure steel. He vaguely hears Greg rub his hands over his face and Sally gasp behind him. They all know exactly who Sarah is referring to.

“What is the message?” Sherlock asks darkly.

“He said…” Sarah swallows hard and it is not because of the pain. “He said John belongs to him. You took his property and you’ll pay. You’ll both pay.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air like a dense fog. Sherlock feels Sarah’s words sink into his bones, replacing his blood with ice. A chill settles over his body. He wipes his hands over his own mouth as he looks into Sarah’s pleading eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” her tells him desperately. “It’s my fault. I saw Jack walking him to the exam room, but I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know and I didn’t warn John. I should’ve warned John! And now… There’s no way he’ll live without medical attention.”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, trying to quiet his mind and think only of the case, the facts. He cannot think of John, his injuries, or his chance of survival. He must think only of the facts and how to find John while there is still time to save his life. He has to pretend John is not someone he knows, someone he lives with, someone he loves. Although his heart clenches in pain and fear, almost too unbearable to breathe, he hides it all and opens his eyes again with the gleam of resolve. He places his own hand on Sarah’s and gives it a firm, but brief squeeze.

“I will find him,” he looks at her with a penetrating stare, “but you must tell me everything they said and did, every detail. Leave nothing out.”

Sherlock can feel the glare of the medics. He looks at Sarah’s bandaged shoulder and then back to her cool blue eyes. She valiantly fights off the pain, but he can see it in her eyes. As much as he wants and needs to find John, he cannot ask her to do something that will endanger her own life. Her daughter needed her mother. Her husband needs his wife. Sherlock wets his lips and meets Sarah’s eyes sincerely.

“Can you do that?”

Her lips flatten into a thin line. She knows what he’s thinking, what he’s asking.

“I’ll be fine. I have time to do this. I want to do this. I’m fine, I promise.”

The medics grumble. Sally shifts on her feet. Greg rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective continues to look into Sarah’s eyes.

“Tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're all thinking, so I'm just going to put it into words for you.
> 
> Holy shit, Jane!! What the hell were you thinking?! And you goddamn sneaky bitch. That chapter summary was so cute and I never suspected for a minute that it would end like this. Oh. My. God. (Yes, that's right. It's so intense we're spelling out the words.) 
> 
> I'm going to stop there. If you have more thoughts or expletives for me, feel free to comment. >:D  
> In the meantime, you know I can't resist this.  
> * Where is John?? How is John?? Can Sherlock save John?? Can Sherlock even find John?!  
> * What is Moriarty going to do with him? Hell, what is he going to do TO him?!  
> * Why do you torture John so?? He's such a good and sweet man. (I know. I love him too, but I'm afraid I often make my favorite characters suffer.)  
> * WHY DO YOU LIKE TO TORTURE US, JANE? WHY?!?!?! GAAAHHHHHAAAARRRG!  
> Read that last sound as a guttural cry of agony.
> 
> I truly enjoyed the last few chapters of sex and chatting and love, and I hope (know) all of you did too. But now that the Empress of Evil has returned, pray that John and Sherlock make it out of this one okay. And remember...we're nearing the end of this great tale.  
> Much love to you all.  
> Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I got lucky and had some time to edit last night. Woo hoo!  
> The frightful anticipation is over and Jim is back.
> 
> Happy reading.

John’s eyes open slowly, his lids are like lead and his vision is blurry. He instinctively blinks a few times, waiting to come out of the haze of heavy sedation. He doesn’t remember being sedated. He doesn’t remember much of anything. As things begin to clear, John glances around the room. He’s in a flat. The bed he’s lying on is the only thing in the room. Strangely, there seems to be an IV stand next to him with a bag dripping away steadily. John’s focus is pulled to the window behind it and his eyes widen in disbelief. The blinds are drawn, but open just enough for him to see the business housed in the building across the street. Speedy’s. Fuck all. He’s on Baker Street, right across from his own flat. His eyes dart up to the black windows. Sherlock must be out...trying to find him.

John’s head snaps around to his left shoulder. All of the events at the surgery, as well as the pain, slam to the forefront of his mind. His shoulder is bandaged well, better than was hurriedly managed at the surgery, and his arm is in a sling. His fingers are swollen and do not move much when he tries. He imagines the entire limb is the same. His eyes are back on his shoulder. The damage from the shot is on par with the one that invalided him from the army. He could tell as soon as it hit him and he started going into shock quickly after. Why is he still alive? 

John tries to recall everything that happened and suddenly Sarah’s scream echoes through his mind.  _ Shit, Sarah!  _ The same bastard shot her too. He remembers her falling, shot in the leg then, and her shoulder.  _ Oh god, no. _ John purses his lips and shakes away the thought before it can fully develop. Worrying for her won’t help either one of them now. He can only hope she is okay and getting medical attention. Dismissing her like this makes him feel like a right prick, but John has to focus on escape right now

John looks down his own body to his right wrist and his ankles. As expected, he is tied to the bed. He twists his limbs to test the ropes. They are tight, but have some give. He can loosen them enough to slip his hand out, if he has the time. However, there is absolutely no way he has that kind of time. He starts struggling against his bonds anyway. He has to escape and get himself to a hospital, or die trying.

Without warning, the door on the opposite wall swings open and James Moriarty sweeps in confidently. John stills when he sees him and scowls. Jim, on the other hand, smiles with a vicious sort of affection and comes to stand at the side of the bed.

“Hello again, love. How are you feeling? Good? Are the painkillers working?”

“Stop,” John begins, spearing him with fierce blue eyes, “calling me that.”

“What else would I call you? I’ve missed you,” he pauses to tilt his head. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

He reaches for John, who jerks to escape his touch, but the ropes hold him fast. The sudden jolt of it rattles his shoulder and arm, sending a series of sharp pains throbbing throughout his upper body. John squeezes his eyes shut against the agony while Jim clucks over him. He places his hand gently on John’s right hand.

“Careful, love. Sudden movements will only make it worse.”

John takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Jim’s hand is warm on his own. John’s gut clenches in protest. He ignores it, swallows hard, and opens his eyes. He turns his head to look at Jim and gives him a tight smile.

“You have to take me to a hospital. You don’t have a choice.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Jim replies coyly.

“I’ll die without surgery.”

Jim slides his black eyes to the ceiling and touches a finger to his own lips. He makes a humming noise and feigns taking John’s words into consideration.

“Do I? Mmm…” he meets John’s gaze with a taunting grin. “No. No, I don’t. You’ve been here for hours, love. The surgery has already been done. Not that I expected this detour, but Seb does like to shoot people, even when they’re off limits.”

“ **What?!”** John’s face turns into a mask of fury and he struggles again, in spite of the pain. He strains against the ropes and lifts his head to glower at his captor. “What did you fucking do to me?!”

“Do? Me? Oh, no, no, no. I didn’t do it myself, love. It was much too complicated.”

“Who,” John demands in a dangerous whisper.

“Don’t worry, love. He’s a doctor. A surgeon. The best.” John stares daggers through him, but Jim only shrugs. “He owed me a favor.”

He leans down close over John’s mouth and breathes him in. John wants to recoil, but won’t allow himself. Jim smiles and speaks quietly, looking lustfully into John’s eyes.

“I made sure you were in very good hands. I take care of what’s mine,” he licks a stripe from John’s jawline to his ear and then nibbles at the lobe. John turns his face as far away from Jim as he can. Jim responds with a giggle and licks, and then bites just enough to sting. John’s face remains stony as Jim pulls back.

“Don’t look so angry. You wouldn’t have come if I’d asked you,” he pauses to look at John fondly. “I was very cross with Seb for shooting you.”

“Let me go.”

“John, you’re far more intelligent than you let on at times, but you really don’t seem to understand my intentions for this reunion.”

“Let me go, you fucking psychopath!!” John shouts in his face. 

Jim swings at John in a flash of movement and crashes his fist into the doctor’s temple, breaking the skin. His eyes bore into John’s for a split-second and he swings again and again. John’s face is wet with blood and he sees it fly after the last punch. He lets his eyes slip shut and his head rest back on the pillow. He clings to consciousness, fearing what he will wake up to. What will Jim do to him if he passes out now?

“Look at me, John,” Jim demands. “Look at me!”

He grabs John’s head with both hands, smearing blood onto John’s cheek. John’s eyes snap open and stare at his furious captor. Pain radiates through his shoulder and his body. His face and head throb with more pain than they should for having been struck by a normal man only using his hands. Jim dips his head down close to John.

“I owe you that, John,” he whispers in a vicious, angry voice. Jim holds his head tight and buries his tongue in John’s mouth, licking greedily and biting at his lips. When he pulls back again, he hovers close to John’s face. 

“You. Are. Mine. John Watson,” he whispers vehemently. “Fucking. Mine. Shut your fucking mouth,” screaming suddenly, “AND ACCEPT IT!!”

John’s eyes are wide and his stomach wretches. He swallows down the looming panic as he hears slow, heavy footsteps stomp in behind Jim.

“You all right?” a deep voice asks. A horrifying grin spreads across Jim’s face and he straightens up.

“Come over here, Seb. I want you to meet someone.”

A tall blonde with a scar marring one side of his face from the base of his ear to above the eyebrow, just missing his right eye, steps out of the shadows and stands on the side of the bed opposite to Jim. He looks down at John’s bloody countenance with an indifferent expression that still manages to look like a glare. He carries a high-powered rifle in his hands. Jim gestures gleefully from one man to the other.

“Dr. John Watson. Sebastian Moran,” Jim grins down at John. “Seb and I have known each other a long time. He’s been keeping an eye on you and our tall detective for me.”

“He was there,” John scowls, collecting himself again after the beating. “He pulled you from the water on the island.”

“Yes, very good, John. Sherlock really should give you more credit. You’re very intelligent, you know,” Jim says and then shrugs, continuing in a playful tone. “Not as smart as me. Or Sherlock. But that would be impossible for almost anyone.”

“He’s the gun that was always on Sherlock,” John glares, looking at Jim with eyes full of fury. “Every time you threatened me. He was there to carry out your orders.”

“Right again, love, and he’s been quite disgruntled because I never let him do it,” Jim snorts. When he stops laughing, Jim leans down close to John and tells him quietly. “God, I want you right now.”

He grins salaciously as John’s eyes travel from his face to Moran’s and back. A fresh feeling of uneasiness spreads through his body. Buying time with Jim is simple enough. He tends to be a bit verbose with John and that can be used against him, but the added component of his gunman has John very unsettled. The man just stares with dead eyes and a silent steadiness.

“Mmmmm,” Jim is purring and rubbing his hands over John’s thigh and his right bicep as he strains against the ropes holding him down. “I’d love to take you right now,” he suddenly pounces and sucks hard enough to leave a mark on John’s neck. His teeth break the delicate skin when he bites. John winces and glares at Jim when he stops. He’s breathing fast, his eyes dilated, but he continues his thought rather than leaping on John’s body. “But we have some things to talk about, John.”

Jim licks away the blood from the newly made marks on John’s neck, like a fucking Alpha, and then lets his hand drift to the ring on John’s left hand.

“What’s this, love?”

John’s blue eyes are dark with hate as he stares at the man. He would have hidden the ring from Jim if he could. John knows full well it will only give him more reason to target Sherlock.

Jim’s eyes flare with barely contained fury. He takes John’s hand in his own and brushes his shaking fingers over the ring gently. His gaze locks onto John, his body beginning to tremble with maddening outrage. The man is like a coiled spring waiting to pop and, looking into those dangerous black eyes, John vows to do everything in his power to protect Sherlock from this lunatic’s wrath.

“Are you married, John?” Jim tries to keep his voice even. John doesn’t say a word, maintaining a death glare. Jim bares his teeth in a terrifying smile. “I’ll only ask you once.”

Another moment’s silence and Moran is suddenly next to John’s head, pressing the barrel of his gun into John’s injured shoulder. John’s scream rips through the air, the spike of pain whiting out his vision for a few seconds. He gasps desperately, trying not to vomit. Moran presses harder.

“You speak when you’re spoken to,” he demands. John chokes back the agony threatening to burst from his throat while Moran pushes harder yet.

“NO! I’m not married!”

“I’m glad to hear that, love,” Jim smiles pleasantly, but Moran does not let up. John squirms under the pressure and bites his lip to keep from making a single sound of discomfort. “Saves me the trouble of killing him before we leave. Annulling the marriage, if you will.”

“Leave?” John rasps.

“Yes, of course. You didn’t think we were going to stay in London, did you? Right across from your flat? I know you’ve noticed, and I’ve already tried that. Your detective is really too clever.”

“I had hoped you’d try again,” John remarks with a pained smile, “if I’m honest.”

Surprisingly, Jim laughs unabashedly. John and Moran’s brows both furrow.

“No, no, no, love,” he sing-songs. “We’re going back to the island. I doubt he’ll look for you there.”

John’s face goes slack, his lips parting in shock. His blood freezes in his veins and his heart stops, just stops. He can’t go back to the island.

“No,” John breathes, barely audible.

“Oh, god, I’ve missed you,” Jim laughs again, but quickly adopts a more serious expression when he looks down at the ring again. “You know, I would’ve taken this off already if your hand wasn’t so swollen. But I have plans for it, and you. Sherlock will never take what’s mine again.”

“I don’t belong to you,” John growls, finding his resolve again.

Moran presses down again and John cries out. His shoulder burns with a fiery pain he has not felt since it exploded in Afghanistan. His eyes snap shut. The barrel must be half way through his shoulder by now and John can feel reality slipping from his grasp as a result. He fights to stay conscious, to not go back to the sand and the noise and the smell of death. He forces his eyes open to see Moran staring blankly, but furrowing his brow, at Jim.

“We could just cut it off.”

“Jesus, Seb, you are ruthless,” Jim dismisses him fondly and turns to John, cupping his bloody cheek. “Sorry to disappoint, but I want my man whole.”

“What the fuck is so special about this one?” Moran asks in a deep, emotionless tone.

“Oh, Seb, can’t you tell?” Jim looks at the man almost wistfully and Moran’s frown deepens, finally reaching his eyes. “He has everything I want  **and** a soul. Not to mention he’s so goddamn sexy.”

Moran slides his eyes to John’s face and watches him indifferently. He lifts his gun from where it digs deeply into John’s shoulder and pauses, then thrusts it back down with all the force of his weight. John hears himself scream. It’s like a sound very far away. He blacks out, but the pain pulls him awake within a few seconds. He stares at the ceiling just trying to breathe. Everything is surreal. Jim is yelling. The gun barrel is gone from John’s shoulder. He turns his head slowly toward Jim, feeling every movement in his shoulder now and wondering if what he sees is real or if he is actually still unconscious.

“Damn it, Seb! What did I tell you?! I told you to knock him out. I told you he was coming with us. So, you shoot him, and now this,” he pauses and glares at Moran as if debating whether or not to kill the man before he does John. Moran stands two steps back from John’s bed, rifle in both hands, looking battle-ready. “God, you are a loose cannon these days.”

Moran keeps a steady gaze on Jim and shrugs. Jim shifts his weight to one foot and rests a hand on his hip, the other pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Just go. Go make sure everything is ready. I want to leave in 20 minutes.”

The tall man nods sternly and smirks at John on his way out. The rare show of emotion is almost startling and definitely terrifying. The man’s face is the perfect mask of evil and it jolts John’s very heart with darkness and ice. He never thought he would meet anyone he would perceive as worse than James Moriarty. John watches Moran go and then settles his eyes on Jim’s suited frame, almost grateful to be alone with him. He cannot control the instinct to flinch when Jim reaches over his body to have a look at his shoulder.

“Oh, dear,” Jim says quietly, biting his lip and looking at the bandage on John’s shoulder. “Looks like it’s bleeding again, but it won’t keep us from what I have planned.”

“And that is?”

Jim smiles at John in an oddly disturbing way. His eyes speak of an evil so dark and deadly that John can see why he and Moran have worked together more than once. In spite of that, the man wears a fond expression on his face. John shivers. He suddenly feels laid bare, exposed with no shelter.

Jim strokes his fingertips up John’s chest and John blinks, off-balance. The touch of Jim’s hot fingertips on John’s bare chest feels intensely wrong and threatening. As Jim crawls onto the bed with him, John takes stock of himself and discovers that pants are all he is wearing. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved that there is something else besides a sheet between himself and Jim, or to be nervous that those two pieces of thin cloth are the only things between them. He glares at Jim with a growing and, hopefully, hidden unease.

Now straddling John’s hips, Jim runs his hands slowly up and down the doctor’s muscled chest. His palm is especially gentle as it skims over the bandages covering his shoulder. He shifts his hips forward languorously, his hardening cock rubbing against John’s flaccid one. Jim tilts his head back and moans as he rolls his hips. His pupils are blown wide when his gaze settles on John’s face again.

“I think I should tell you…” he rocks slowly in rhythm with his words, “your surgeon said you should be careful. You’ll lose your arm with another injury like this. That means you’ll have to cooperate with me. To. The. Letter.”

He bends forward, his hot mouth finding the nipple not hidden under a bandage. His tongue is soft and smooth, but its movements are rough and possessive. John’s body tenses. His limbs strain against the ropes that hold him. If he could just get free. If he could only hit Jim. God, how he wants to hit him.

“Get off of me, you sick fuck,” he warns through clenched teeth. Jim pulls back abruptly and moves his face close to John’s. His breath grazes over John’s lips dangerously.

“I’m going to take you back to my island and we’re going to be married.”

John laughs cruelly, even though it hurts terribly, and stares at Jim with blazing eyes.

“That’s rich,” he interrupts. “You don’t give a shit about me. Why the fuck would you tie yourself to me when all you really want is someone to fuck whenever you feel like it? Why the hell don’t you find someone else to do it. Someone who actually wants to.”

Jim looks at him strangely and time seems to stop. His expression looks almost like surprise…or confusion. John swallows hard, his forehead wrinkling and eyes widening. He looks hurt. He actually looks sad, wounded. John just hurt fucking Jim Moriarty’s feelings.

John stares in disbelief as Jim licks his lips and erases the expression as quickly as it came, replaced by a salacious smirk.

“Because I want to punish Sherlock,” he whispers dangerously. His words are a threat and a promise wound together. “Once you are MY husband, you can never be his. We will marry and he will watch. The same way he’ll watch our wedding night and every night after that. I intend to record it all, love. I’m recording right now, and I’ll send it to him. Every last one. He won’t want to watch after the first one, but he won’t be able to stop himself and it will eat him alive.”

“No,” John’s voice can scarcely be heard. His own shock and terror overwhelming the sense of the soldier, John can see Sherlock in his mind’s eye sitting before their telly and hurting himself, cutting himself to suffer as he sees John suffer. Unable to find the words, only one falls from his mouth. “W..why?”

“I thought I made that clear. I want  **you** , love, and no one else. I always get what I want,” he bucks his hips into John. John feels sick. “I also want to hurt Sherlock Holmes and you are my perfect weapon.” He smiles slyly and strokes John’s chest with one hand, the side of his face with the other. “I think you want it too. You want it so badly, but you hide it. Hide behind Sherlock. He can never give you what I can. He’ll never be good enough. Not for you,” his cock rubs mercilessly against John. “Come with me, John. Come  **for** me.”

Even in his shock and disgust, John sees his opportunity and takes it. With their faces so close together and Jim’s eyes now closed in pleasure, John pulls his head back as best he can and snaps it at Jim with a grunt. Jim rears upward and back, stunned by the blow. With his arms flailing at his sides in an attempt to keep his balance, he nearly topples off of John to the floor, but catches himself and soon sits steadily on John’s hips once again.

Meanwhile, John struggles with all his strength and ignores the rising pain vibrating through his body. This is his only chance to get away, so far as he can see. He can’t go back to that island. He can’t face it. The place where he was raped so many times and will be again. He can’t spend his life married to Jim Moriarty. He can’t. 

John looks down at his right hand and twists his wrist as hard and fast as he can. The ropes burn marks into his skin, but he can feel them loosening. Suddenly, Jim punches him square in the nose, hard enough in his fury that John momentarily sees stars.

“YOU BITCH!” he is screaming and his hands are around John’s throat, squeezing. John’s mouth opens, but no words will come. He pulls at his hand and thrashes his body from side to side as best he can beneath Jim. Pain radiates through his small frame, nearly unbearably, making it hard to focus.

Jim is squeezing with all his might, and shaking John so much that his head and shoulders bounce on the bed. John starts mouthing no at some point without realizing it. Darkness begins to cloud the outside of his vision. He looks up at Jim. He doesn’t want it to be so, but he knows his eyes are pleading with Jim to stop. And Jim’s eyes are black. He sees nothing. Nothing but red. And he’s shouting. Cursing John’s name and making promises. Dirty, filthy promises of what he will do to John when they are safely out of London. John suddenly questions his own will to live. He stops struggling and lets his eyes close. The darkness threatening to take him. Why? Why should he try to live when escape is virtually impossible and his life will be the hell that is Jim Moriarty?

_ I will find you, John. I promise you. _

_ Sherlock. _ John’s eyes snap open, suddenly knowing he can’t give up. He is too strong to give up. Sherlock makes him strong. He makes him better. He makes him want to live no matter what because even the smallest possibility of a life with Sherlock Holmes is worth fighting for. Sherlock will never stop looking.

John renews the struggle with ferocious energy, all the while the darkness creeps further into his vision. He doesn’t have much time left. He meets Jim’s eyes, can see him still shouting, but cannot hear him. His eyes slip closed, but he forces them back open.  _ No. No! _

_ Please, god, let me live. Please…please. _

John mouths the word along with his mind as air floods into his lungs. Jim’s hands loosen further and come to rest on John’s chest again. John’s eyes flutter open as he coughs to regain his breath. His throat is on fire, inside and out.

“God damn it. You are mine, John.  **You are mine** . You won’t get away so easily as that,” Jim insists angrily, his tenuous grip on self-control showing. He stops a moment, visibly trying to center himself. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” John coughs, his voice raspy.

“You push my buttons, John Watson. You push them so easily and you do it on purpose. You’re not afraid,” he pauses and looks at John in wonder. He gently touches the bruises forming on John’s throat. “You’re not afraid of anything. I’ve never met a man like you.”

“Your friend seems pretty fearless,” John mutters and Jim shrugs.

“Seb is Seb,” he says in a quiet voice, “but you’re different.”

They study one another for a moment. John looking up with trepidation and Jim leaning forward, closer. He looks at John’s mouth, his eyes, his nose and eyebrows, his cheeks, and back to his mouth. Jim slowly, gently smooths his fingers through John’s soft, blonde hair. He licks his lips and tilts his head toward John.

“I…think I love you. John,” he says in hesitant voice, his expression full of discovery and unease. “I know I’ve said it before, but I think it might actually be true.”

John stares in shock. A drop of blood trickles down into his left eye and he squints it closed, but opens it again not wanting to take his eyes off of the man upon his body. Jim stares back softly and pulls a corner of the sheet that only half covers the doctor up close to John’s head. He carefully wipes the blood covering his face. When he is finished, he leans down and kisses John chastely, softly. He pauses with their lips nearly touching and breathes in John’s scent, delicious and warming. He pulls back to share a look John’s certainly never seen on his face before. Jim smiles and announces decisively into the silence all around.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth.”

“What?! No!”

The strange trance they were both in snaps and reality quickly screams back in. White, hot panic fills John’s brain. He twists under Jim’s legs as Jim throws his jacket to the floor. He begins working open his own belt.

“No! No, no, no! Get the fuck off me!”

“What is it, love? Hasn’t Sherlock done it yet?” Jim’s tone is playfully psychotic again. His expression bespeaks his pleasure at seeing John squirm. “It’s wonderful and your first time will be so special for us.”

“ **NO!”** John jerks his body and lifts his head, furiously, desperately. Fear and anger pulsing through his veins, he strains against the legs and ropes that pin him to the bed. “NO! NO! STOP!”

“I think rimming once we’re on the plane,” Jim continues smiling and opening his flies. His licks his lips lecherously and it makes John wretch. John looks around frantically for something, anything that will help him. He is nearly hyperventilating. He looks back at Jim in true horror. He cannot stop him. There’s nothing he can do to stop him.

“Relax, love,” Jim purrs. “Just lay back and relax. I’ll make it perfect.”

_ OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD SHERLOCK! _

“SHERLOCK!!!” he screams.

There’s a sudden crack in the air and the smell of gunpowder.

Everything stops.

John looks up at Jim in the silent, heavy air. His eyes look blank, but they meet John’s panic-stricken stare and blink one last time. Blood trickles from his mouth and lands on John’s chest in great, fat drops. Both men’s eyes follow the drops of crimson liquid as they fall in slow motion. John’s slide back up to Jim’s again to see his mouth moving. What is he saying? _ I...love...you.  _ Jim begins to tumble forward and lands on John’s body with a weighty thud that knocks the wind out of the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god! How much can poor John take? If he and Sarah aren't both BAMFs, I don't know who is.   
> How great is it that Jim didn't get his way, am I right? I know I've been incredibly cruel to John in this story, but I couldn't do it again. I just couldn't. He'll have enough of a PTSD relapse from just being threatened with a return to the island, much less actually being sexually assaulted again. And that doesn't even address Sherlock's feelings on the matter or the consequences.
> 
> So what happens now? What just happened exactly? Tune in next time for the answers. Same bat time. Same bat channel.  
> Btw, I can't remember just now who brought this up and I apologize for that. My mind fails me, but I want to say it was Purrfect. Anyway, "These questions and many others will be answered on the next episode of...SOAP"!!!! It finally came to me! That show was hilarious! I only saw it in reruns long after Katherine Helmond had been Mona on Who's the Boss. I couldn't believe how many celebs were on Soap back before they were famous. I thank you for this trip down memory lane, and if that isn't what you were talking about, I'm afraid I have no hope of figuring it out. I can't think of anything but Soap now.
> 
> Hmm. I feel like I should ask some DP questions, but I've said enough already. I'll leave those questions to all of you. Go ahead. Ask me anything. Maybe I'll give it a sassy DP answer. LOL.  
> Thank you and love to you all. Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're back. I know it's been a little while. I hope you aren't all vexed by the wait. Speaking of which, I want to add that we'll be on the move for Thanksgiving. I'm hoping to keep editing and posting, but I can't make any promises. 
> 
> Anyway....who is the shooter and is Moriarty dead?
> 
> Read on, Macduff.

John’s breaths are quick and shallow. He tries to look around, but Jim weighs heavily on his body and his shoulder screams under the pressure. He can feel blood seeping from the broken skin on his face. He listens intently to the silence that is left after the shattering gunshot and hears nothing. He swallows hard and tries to move again, but freezes to the spot. He can hear fast approaching footsteps. It must be Moran. John tries to move, but the ropes won’t give and a spike of pain radiates through his shoulder. He cries out before he can stop himself and curses through clenched teeth.

“John!”

John knows that voice, but he can’t believe he heard it. He tries to look around Jim’s body, tries to ignore the pain, and then he sees him. The detective’s face suddenly appears next to John’s head, his silver eyes wide and filled with worry. 

“Sherlock!” John gasps breathlessly, hoping he isn’t imaging this. Why doesn’t he touch him? If Sherlock would just touch him, he could be sure. He has to be sure. John opens his mouth to ask it, to demand it, but Sherlock speaks before he can say a word.

“Don’t move. Just hold on.”

“Christ, John,” Greg’s voice declares grimly. John looks to his left and sees the DI, his face and body filled with tension. “What’s he done to you?”

Both men vanish and, for a moment, John wonders if he really saw them at all. His shoulder throbs and he lets his head fall back with a cringe on his face. He is breathing hard. He twists his right wrist and feels the rope cut into his skin. If he can just get loose before Jim regains consciousness. If he can just get off this bed and out of this building, across the street to his own flat. A tear seeps traitorously from his eye, mixing with his blood before sliding down his cheek. He turns his head away from Jim’s face, his scent invading John’s lungs. It surrounds him and he feels sick. He remembers that smell from when Jim would rape him. He never wants to feel this again, or feel that again. He wants to hold his breath, but can’t seem to stop breathing so fast.

Suddenly, the weight of Jim’s body begins to lighten. John looks up to see Sherlock and Greg slowly lifting the limp body off of him. They drag the man into a corner and set him on the floor. Greg remains next to the body and calls for backup. Sherlock rushes back to John’s side. His hands hover around John’s face, taking in the blood trickling from at least five different places and running down onto the pillow. His worried gaze falls to the harsh bruises on John’s neck and then back up to John’s face. Sherlock’s brow furrows, his eyes crinkle in dismay, and his lips are parted.

“God, John,” he glances at the blood soaked and torn bandage on John’s shoulder. His worry deepening, still unsure whether or not he should even touch his doctor. John swallows and quickly smiles around the pain.

“It’s fine. Looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine,” he pauses to just look at those eyes he feared he would never see again and sighs deeply. “I love you. I thought I’d never be able to tell you that again. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock shushes him as he leans in close and kisses John’s forehead gently, but urgently. His hands cup John’s face as he pulls back to look him in the eye. Another tear drips down John’s face, moving slowly and leaving a trail of glistening pink moisture. Sherlock brushes it away with his thumb. “John…”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts in a quiet voice, “will you kiss me? Please?”

His fiance looks at him with soft eyes and lets out a sigh before pressing his lips to John’s lightly. A gasp escapes John’s lips as he moves them against Sherlock’s. The detective responds in kind and John finally begins to relax. The longer he touches those warm, soft lips with his own, the safer John feels and the more he believes this is really happening. As the kiss goes on and on, John’s body begins to melt into the bed sheets, his exhausted muscles reduced to jelly. He finds himself lost in a haze of relief and comfort when the kiss finally ends.

Sherlock rests their foreheads together and licks his own lips, savoring John’s taste and his scent. John doesn’t try to speak or move. He simply breathes and relishes in Sherlock’s warm breath as it passes over his face.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock whispers reverently. “I love you and I’m sorry. I should have found you right away. I should have known he would come for you.”

“Shhh. Shh. It’s all right. You couldn’t have known.” 

Sherlock suddenly pulls back to look at John with wide eyes and near panic. The doctor opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, his own expression full of panic as well, as his fiance looks over his body with a sharp eye.

“What did he do?! Did he touch you? Did he put his hands on you?” the detective demands.

“I’m all right, Sherlock. I’m all right,” John tries to calm him, wishing his hand was free so he could touch his flatmate gently. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“How can you say that??” is the incredulous reply.

“Right,” Greg interjects, appearing next to Sherlock, “they’re on their way. The medics too. Let’s get him untied.” 

Greg moves to the end of the bed to free John’s ankles and Sherlock snaps into action, focusing on the knots at John’s right wrist.

“How many were with him?” the DI asks as he works.

“Only one that I saw. I think they were on their own. They’ve worked together before. He was the gunman on Sherlock while I was captive on the island.”

The detective looks toward Greg and casts the ropes aside. Greg meets his eyes as he pulls more rope from John’s ankles, freeing him at last.

“The masked man who shot Mycroft,” the detective tells him.

“Yes,” John agrees, looking at his fiance with sincerity and then back to Greg, his tone serious. “He’s still here somewhere and not a fan of mine.”

“If he’s here, we’ll find him,” Greg steps up to the head of the bed, nodding at John’s shoulder. “What’s all this?”

“He said he had a surgeon operate,” John supplies grimly. “Someone who owed him a favor. I didn’t see him.”

“And you believe him?” Greg scoffs.

“I’d be dead if he was lying,” John answers. Greg presses his lips together in a thin line and shares a look with his friend. Sherlock stands close, holding John’s hand and stroking it gently with his thumb. All three are quiet for a moment, silently thanking god, the fates, whoever, until the sound of scrambling footsteps echoes through the hall behind them.

“Be right back,” Greg says as he exits the room. They hear him calling down the hall and then Sherlock turns on his doctor. John’s field of vision is suddenly full of curls, silver worry, and cheekbones. Warm hands glide over his bare chest and it makes him want to cry.

“Are you all right?” the detective is asking. “Are you cold?”

“Sherlock,” John starts, but winces when pain pulses through his body. He falls silent for a moment and lets out a puff of breath. He doesn’t want to show his pain. He wants to reassure Sherlock that he will be fine, but some things are too difficult to hide. He gazes up at his fiance again when his discomfort subsides a bit. “Relax. Just relax. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

“I should have been here long ago,” Sherlock shakes his head, wearing a face of concern and dread. John raises his right hand slowly to touch the man’s cheek and smile tiredly at him.

“You got here just in time.”

“John…” he begins, eyes fluttering over his doctor’s compact and somewhat broken body.

“Sherlock,” John’s calm tone catches the detective’s attention right away. He stops and stares meaningfully at John, waiting for him to continue. “You were here exactly when I needed you. You always are.”

A small smile dances across Sherlock’s lips and he seems to relax a bit. John is with him and he is safe. He is alive, even if a bit the worse for wear.  **His** John. God, how could he have ever lived without him? Tracing his fingertips along John’s cheek and around his jaw, he whispers quietly.

“I will always be here for you, John. I love you with all my heart.”

John smiles fondly. Sherlock glances around for a flannel or towel and eventually settles for another corner of the bedsheet. He gently wipes his doctor’s face clean again. John simply relaxes into his touch until the circumstances of his own kidnapping flood into his mind.

“Oh, god. Sarah!”

“She’s all right, John. She was shot quite cleanly in the shoulder and thigh. Moriarty wanted her alive long enough to relay his message to me. She was taken to hospital as soon as she finished telling me everything that occured.”

“Thank god. Jack and Elsa?” John asks hopefully. This time Sherlock presses his lips together and shakes his head slightly. John’s face falls. “Oh, god.”

“I’m sorry.”

“They were so young. They had their whole lives ahead,” John covers his eyes. “Shit.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You could not have stopped Moriarty.”

“I know, I know,” John nods, taking his hand from his brow. 

They are both silent again. They can hear Greg barking orders some distance down the hall. The faint shuffle of feet as his officers start searching for Moran. John looks up at the ceiling sadly, trying to wrap his mind around everything that has happened in the last few hours and he realizes he has absolutely no idea what time it is or how much time has passed since the surgery. 

John tries to concentrate and returns his gaze to Sherlock with the intention of asking him just that when his muddled thoughts abruptly turn him in another direction. His hand flies up and clutches at Sherlock’s arm in a sudden panic, pieces of his conversation with Jim coming back in rushing waves. Sherlock looks at him in shock.

“He loves me! He told me he loves me,” John nearly shouts. “He actually meant it, Sherlock. He meant it! He’ll never leave me alone! He’ll never stop coming for me and hurting you. D’you know what he’d planned?! He..”

“John,” Sherlock holds him gently, but firmly with both hands. John shuts his mouth with a snap, glad Sherlock stopped him before those most horrible words spilled from his lips. “Moriarty is dead.”

“What?”

“Greg shot him as soon as we saw the two of you.”

John blinks at him, wearing an expression of disbelief. He cannot make himself comprehend the meaning of Sherlock’s words. Jim can’t be dead. He will never die. He’ll always be there to ruin John’s life, and try to kill the love of his life. John pushes himself up with his right arm. He only pauses for a second or two when pain shoots through his left arm, shoulder, and chest. Sherlock makes to stop him at first, but helps him instead, knowing the doctor will not be stopped. John sits up fully and freezes completely once he sees Jim leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. His black eyes are still open and lifeless. Blood fills his mouth and spills out slowly, Greg’s bullet having entered through the back of his head and exited from his mouth.

John’s gaze drifts back to Sherlock. He looks at him in shock and disbelief for a few long seconds and then relief sweeps over his body. He collapses into his fiance’s firm torso and wraps his good arm around that slender waist. He buries his nose in the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt and breathes deep. Feeling strong arms curl around his smaller frame, John dares to let himself believe that Jim is truly out of his life forever. Sherlock rests his chin against John’s head and strokes his hair.

“It’s over, John. You’re safe.”

***

John sits in a hospital bed, his eyes wide, waiting impatiently for Sherlock to arrive. A burly orderly wrestled the tall man to the floor when medical staff refused to grant him entry to the emergency room. Even John could not convince them as he was being wheeled in and the swinging doors closed. That was the last he saw of his fiance and he is nearly jumping out of his skin to see him. Jim and his threats, what he had been about to do, all of it left John completely unsettled. He was so close to being taken away from his life and everyone he loves. So close to being defiled again.

John has been on edge ever since, jumping at the slightest noises and he feels ridiculous. He was a fucking soldier in fucking Afghanistan. He has lived through things other men would never recover from. But something inside, something deep down in his being will not be calmed. The only peace he has felt during the last 18 hours was in Sherlock’s arms and now he has no idea where the man is or when he will see him again. John would try to sleep away the time until Sherlock returns, god knows he’s exhausted, but he sees the island every time he closes his eyes. It’s like a nightmare even when he’s awake.

John glances at the wall clock. Suppose Sherlock was arrested. How long would it take for Greg to have him released? Or even realize he was taken into custody? John turns his uneasy gaze to the window. The blinds are closed to block out the morning sun. John’s doctor had told him to sleep. The nurse reminded him before leaving his room. Maybe they aren’t allowing anyone into his room until they are certain he has slept. John glances at the clock again.  _ God, this is unacceptable.  _ He looks down at the sheet covering his lap and scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Jesus, I’m starting to sound like him,” he huffs a laugh.

John jumps when the door to his room opens in a rush, his head snapping to look. Sherlock Holmes strides in with his tousled curls and tailored trousers. He still wears nothing but a white buttondown on his upper half, its front still stained with John’s own blood.

“Sherlock,” John reaches for him. He can’t keep the desperation from his voice or his face and he doesn’t give a shit. The detective is next to him in an instant, arms wrapped around his body, one hand resting on John’s nape as the smaller man buries his face in Sherlock’s open shirt collar. His voice shakes ever so slightly when he speaks. “What the hell took you so long?”

“It’s all right, John. I’m here.”

The effect is immediate. John’s body relaxes, his muscles begin to unwind. He inhales deeply and releases the air slowly, running his one free hand up and down Sherlock’s strong back. John pulls away after a few minutes to meet his sparkling silver eyes.

“I’m okay. It’s fine. I just… Don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock strokes his cheek with a long, delicate thumb. The doctor leans forward and kisses his fiance gently. Sherlock returns it readily, giving into the feeling of those smooth lips on his own. He moves to kiss John’s cheek, his jaw, and then his chin as he pulls away to study that perfect face, one he feared he might not see again. “Your doctor was able to ascertain the damage?”

“Yeah,” John replies grimly. “Moriarty didn’t lie. A surgical procedure was performed and every scan confirms by an extremely skilled surgeon. They also confirm that the muscles are not only damaged, but weakened significantly. They won’t heal as easily, or with the other wounds.”

“Physical therapy?”

“Will keep it from getting worse. It’ll strengthen it a bit, but it won’t fix it,” he looks at Sherlock with determined eyes. “Another injury like this and I  **will** lose my arm.”

Sherlock nods once slowly and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, steeling himself for the next question.

“Did Moriarty assault you?”

John’s eyes widen and then soften. He holds his arm tighter around Sherlock and squeezes.

“I know what it cost you to ask me that,” he says softly, leaning in close again and brushing his lips over a trembling cupid’s bow. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, he slides his hand around to the detective’s chest and holds it over his heart. He can feel the steady beating of it. A heart beating for him, for both of them. “No. He…kissed me. My face, my chest. He wanted his dick in my mouth,” he stops a moment when Sherlock very visibly shudders. He was not prepared for that image. John wets his own lips. “That’s when you came in.”

With that, John falls silent and watches his detective. Sherlock returns his gaze, looking deeply into dark blue oceans. He can tell by those eyes that John speaks the truth, that he hides nothing. They have both learned from past mistakes at last. He touches a hand to John’s face, his fingertips tracing along John’s cheekbone lightly. He slowly, carefully places his other hand over John’s heart, mirroring his fiance. The beating is neither fast nor slow. It is just what it should be and Sherlock is thankful for that. Thankful that he can comfort this man who he loves so much.

“Are you all right?” he inquires quietly.

“Yes,” John’s voice is a whisper. Sherlock’s isn’t any louder.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I would never stop looking.”

“I know.”

“Your heart is the other half of my heart. You complete all that was lost within me.”

Silence falls over their hushed voices. Both men breathe a little faster than normal, their lips parted. They continue to search one another’s eyes and hold hands over hearts. The detective moves first, finally cupping his fiance’s cheek, a small smile playing at his lips. He wants everything to stop, if only for a moment, so he can drink in all that is John Watson for as long as he wishes. He wants to take this adorable man in his arms and never let go. To bury his nose in soft, blonde hair and inhale the scent until he is certain he will never forget it, or this man in his arms. Sherlock smirks. As if he could ever forget John Watson. With Moriarty dead, they can put their lives back together. But first, he must deal with the other matter at hand.

Sherlock fixes John with a sharp eye and presses on, promising himself he will squeeze the stuffing out of John later.

“And what of the other man? Moran?”

“Yes, indeed, John. Do tell us about Sebastian Moran,” an unexpected voice sounds from the door. The duo look away from one another to see Mycroft entering the room. The younger Holmes sneers at his brother and addresses him in a biting tone.

“I’m sure John is pleased to know how much you care. Here so quickly and asking after his health.”

“He has always managed to reign you in, brother mine. Surely there can be no doubt as to how much I value him,” Mycroft replies snidely and Sherlock bristles. Mycroft turns his attention to John. “I am glad to see you are well enough.”

“Ta,” John replies with a raise brow. “Well enough for what?”

“You’ll forgive me, John, but time is of the essence. What can you tell me about Moran?”

“As if you need him to,” Sherlock snorts. “You already have a file on him, provided by your minions. You should be telling us about him.”

“He’s right, you know,” John adds. Mycroft shifts his icy gaze to John, warming it a bit as he does. John raises both brows now and continues. “I don’t actually know much about him. Moriarty said they’d worked together before and known one another for quite a while. He was his man on the ground watching Sherlock while I was on the island. Moriarty didn’t say it, but Moran may be the one who planted the bomb meant for you in parliament.”

“I’m sure he was,” Sherlock remarks in a neutral tone. “Moriarty wasn’t one to trust his mightiest enemies to just anyone.”

“Indeed. I believe you and I were quiet high on that list,” Mycroft shares a look with the detective.

“Undoubtedly.”

“But I’m sure you already dug all that up since I’ve been in hospital,” John supplies. Mycroft gives him a casual nod. “Then, and please don’t misunderstand me, what is it you want from me?”

Mycroft looks at John thoughtfully and Sherlock crosses his arms impatiently. The elder Holmes casts a side glance at his brother before he begins to explain.

“Sebastian Moran has worked with Moriarty extensively over the years, but more continuously of late. They are responsible for a great many crimes,” he shifts his weight to lean on his ever-present umbrella. “Their association has even been more intimate from time to time.”

John closes his eyes and tries hard not to shudder as his blood freezes in his veins. Everything Moran did and said falls into place within the puzzle that is…was Jim Moriarty. 

_ What the fuck is so special about this one? _

“John, are you all right?” Sherlock’s voice redraws his attention and the doctor opens his eyes to see a worried detective looking back at him. Even Mycroft’s expression betrays concern.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he turns to Mycroft again. “You were saying?”

“It is true that a great deal of information has been gathered in the last few hours. However, there is a certain piece I do not have and, it would seem, cannot be found.”

“Something your incompetents couldn’t find?” Sherlock interjects irritably. “Unbelievable.”

“And you are the only one who can provide it,” the older man continues, ignoring his brother. “What I need from you, John, is a description.”

“You’re kidding,” John huffs with a befuddled smile.

“I’m afraid not. A thing so simple, so essential, and yet, it cannot be obtained. But  **you,** John, have seen him.”

“Tall. About Sherlock’s height, judging by Jim’s stature. Short, dirty-blonde hair, hazel eyes. Tan. My skin tone, more or less. Broad shoulders, very well built,” he pauses, puffing out a breath. “Must weigh twice what I do.”

“Thank you, John. Would you be willing to work with a sketch artist and put together a composite? I would like to put him on paper.”

“Sure.”

“Mycroft, John is very tired,” Sherlock speaks over him. “Can’t this wait?”

“You would prefer Moran escapes?”

“Sherlock,” John touches his fiance’s hand and coaxes him to break the glare with his brother. “It’s okay. I’m fine and I’d rather get it over with.”

Sherlock purses his lips and pulls his hand away. He rises and walks away from the bed, his back to John.

“Fine.”

“Thank you, John. He will be here within the hour,” Mycroft says kindly. Well, as kind as he gets. 

***

“He had a scar around his right eye. Very distinctive. A fraction closer and he’d have lost the eye.”

Mycroft cannot disguise his delight at such a feature and stays for the entirety of John’s description to the sketch artist. Sherlock leans against the wall in a shadow, silently watching. By the time they are through, lunch has been eaten and afternoon is nearly gone into evening. Mycroft and his artist bid them farewell, leaving the doctor alone with his detective. John leans back against his pillows, exhausted. He looks across the room at Sherlock.

“You’re angry with me,” he says apprehensively and Sherlock sighs.

“No, John,” he steps lightly over to the bed and sits in the chair the sketch artist had used. “I’m not angry. I’m selfish.”

“What?” John asks with a confused huff.

“I wanted Mycroft to leave. I wanted everyone to leave. I wanted you all to myself,” he scooches the chair close and takes John’s hand in his, kissing his knuckles before holding it to his own chest. “When Greg called me to the surgery and you were gone, I don’t know what happened. My mind… My mind just shut down. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t deduce. I have never experienced anything like it before. I got a cab and I, I tried not to panic,” he gradually begins to speak faster and faster, his voice growing more desperate. John holds tightly to Sherlock’s hands. “I was frightened, John. So frightened I would never find you, that I would never see you again. But when I got there, it all slotted into place. Sarah told me everything, every detail. And I knew. I knew where he took you.” He abruptly releases John to hold the man’s face in his hands. His silver eyes are soft. His expression is a mixture of loss, relief, admiration. Sherlock tilts his head and inhales through open lips. “Then he was on you and he was laughing. You were screaming.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John’s voice is barely a whisper..

“And then Greg fired and I just… I wanted him off of you and you in my arms. I want you, John. I want you and I nearly lost you. Again,” swallowing hard, Sherlock fixes him with eyes filled to the brim with tears. “I want to be with you. Share my life, my whole life. With you.”

“That’s the plan,” John tugs at Sherlock’s bloodied shirt and the man moves in closer. John meets him halfway for a gentle kiss and wipes away his tears. He rests their foreheads together, letting out a heavy breath. “We will. Now and forever. To the end of our days.”

John reaches down and takes Sherlock’s hand. He tugs at him again until Sherlock rises from the chair and allows John to guide him onto the bed. John releases his hand and raises his own to stroke the dark curls now within his reach. 

“You, Sherlock Holmes, will be my husband and as soon as possible too,” he smiles. “God, I love you.”

“And I, you.” Sherlock pulls John into his arms and kisses his bruised temple. They remain this way for several long moments. Lost in each other’s arms and thoughts, it is not until Sherlock’s body stiffens that John opens his eyes and looks up at his detective. Sherlock returns the gaze uneasily and John is certain he is not going to like whatever is on Sherlock’s mind. “Speaking of…”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps we should delay the wedding.”

“No. Absolutely not,” John pulls out of his strong embrace, shaking his head.

“Just until you have recovered fully.” 

“Our wedding is two months away. I will be fine by then. My shoulder will be sore and…” he falters for a second, but continues, “won’t have healed completely, but I’ll be able to pull off the ceremony without a sling, at least.” He looks at Sherlock in frustration and growing anger. Moriarty will **not** take this away from them. John is ready to express this opinion and snap at his fiance full force, but stops silent before uttering a word. Maybe Sherlock doesn’t want to marry him anymore. Maybe this is all too much. He studies his mate thoughtfully and tries not to sound angry. “Look, do you have any doubts about this? About marrying me.”

“No.”

“Neither do I,” John responds quickly and just like that his tenuous balance between anger and apprehension topples. “We are not going to put this off, damn it. He wins if he fucks up our lives again. Jim cannot win!”

“John,” he touches the doctor’s shoulder lightly. John goes quiet and looks at him with shimmering eyes. All the anger drains from his body in that one look. Sherlock traces John’s jawline with his fingers and speaks quietly. “We will do whatever you want to do. Whatever you are ready for. I will be by your side always.”

He gazes at his doctor with soft eyes and brushes away a stray tear that runs down John’s cheek. John sighs and leans into the touch. He wets his lips and speaks in a hushed voice so full of love.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock leans into John’s personal space and glides his mouth over John’s closing eyes, down onto his cheekbone, and to his lips. He stops to simply breathe in John for a moment and then covers John’s mouth with his own, their lips moving together, slotting perfectly. His tongue darts out to touch John’s lips, to lick along them with just its tip. Then Sherlock breaks away to kiss John‘s jaw again, his chin.

Sherlock opens his eyes, as does John a moment later. What they do not say with words, they share with a look. Sparkling irises that speak volumes, passing between the two men as they experience the other’s every emotion and every thought.

“You need to rest,” the detective comments quietly. John blinks. He looks at Sherlock with a soft, but deadly serious expression.

“Stay with me,” his hand falls and grips his fiance’s. “Don’t leave me alone. Not right now. Not for a while.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand. He knows well how difficult it is for John to admit he needs help. That he has weaknesses in his armor.

“By your side is where I shall always be,” he pauses and then smirks. “Did I not just say that? Do keep up, John.”

A grin spreads across John’s face to contrast with his moist eyes. He nudges his good shoulder against Sherlock in a shove and laughs. Sherlock joins him as he props his feet on the bed, folding his arms around John’s smaller body and holding him to his chest. He is warm against John’s skin. With his cheek resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, the detective’s lips brushing John’s hair and hand running up and down John’s back, John finally begins to feel completely safe. He sighs and lets himself relax against the man in his bed. His whole body aches from the constant tension of the last 24 hours.

“Tell me about bees, Sherlock.”

“God, you must be sick to death of bees by now,” he snorts.

“Then tell me about our wedding. Tell me what you’ve imagined.”

Sherlock sighs deeply. It is a happy sound. He strokes his long fingers through John’s hair.

“The sun will be setting on the garden, bathing it in an orange glow. The flowers and changing leaves will look even more red and orange and yellow. And you. Your hair will be like purest gold…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES!! HE'S DEAD! Ding dong, the WITCH IS DEAD! 
> 
> I'm sure some, maybe many, are disappointed that John did not kick the shit out of Jim before his demise, and that neither John nor Sherlock actually killed him. I just couldn't figure how Sherlock would have a gun and be able to use it without getting in trouble. Sure, he could have grabbed John's before he left the flat. Hell, he probably did, but it is an illegal firearm after all. It's not like Greg could just say he shot him, having never fired his weapon. I mean, they could've fired his gun too, but that would've ended with a massive cover-up I just didn't want to get into and we've seen already that Greg is one who wants to follow the rules of the law. Granted, he is to the point where he would do just about anything for John and Sherlock out of friendship and brotherly love, but they wouldn't want to compromise him by asking.
> 
> Anyway, Jim is dead. I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief. Of course...Moran is still out there.  
> * Does he care enough about Moriarty to want to continue his work?  
> * Or exact revenge?  
> * Thank god the shoulder scans didn't reveal any hidden tracking devices. Moriarty clearly didn't plan on John ever escaping. Or did he? They didn't really scan anywhere else...  
> * On to recovery and wedding plans! Will things go without a hitch?  
> * Will John recover as well as he hopes? You know he will if he has anything to say about it.
> 
> While we're talking about future chapters, you might have noticed that this Part has been shortened from ten chapters to seven. It finally happened. I usually guess at the beginning how many chapters a Part will break down to, and I usually underestimate or am spot on. Well, this time the Part isn't as long as I thought. So there is but one chapter left. Just one. I'm about to edit it a second time and when I read through the first time, it was lovely. Just lovely. I giggled, I cried, I'm giving too much away. :O
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope to get the next one out soon. If nothing else, I'll see you after the holiday. I love you all and thank you for your kindness and support.  
> Love, Jane


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery time!  
> And love!  
> And giggles!  
> And arguing!  
> And sex!  
> And arguing?  
> What do John and Sherlock have to argue about? Two men so deeply in love and close to their wedding date. What could they possibly have to argue about? ... Perhaps a certain consulting detective who hasn't necessarily done all of his groomly duties?

John is released from the hospital and into a government rehabilitation facility a few days later. Sherlock insisted he receive the best care possible and Mycroft was more than happy to accommodate. John lives in a well-furnished room there and works hard every day at physical and occupational therapy. Sherlock stays with him for the most part, but is not allowed to sleep in the same room at night. After much shouting and cursing, the two men finally accept that Sherlock has to return to Baker Street every evening around nine. The detective tries to sneak back into John’s room a few times, but resigns himself to home when forced to have the very unpleasant conversation with Mycroft on John’s possible ejection from the facility. Her Majesty does NOT allow such shenanigans in the rooms.

In spite of being separated overnight and fairly restricted in their level of affection, or perhaps because of, John begins to recover quickly. He channels his frustration at the situation into his therapy and makes great strides almost immediately. Sherlock works on cases while John is in therapy and spends the remainder of the day and night with him. Until he has to leave, that is. The two men spend a great deal of time discussing cases and finalizing wedding arrangements. Though neither of them ever thought of themselves as the type to enjoy organizing nuptials, it has been very entertaining for both. Their spirited conversations generally reveal that they are quite like-minded grooms, often ending in clandestine snuggling and lazy kisses. Although, one rather spectacular argument resulted in some surprisingly fantastic angry sex. Fortunately, they weren’t caught that day. John would have been chucked out for sure if they had been. 

After a little over one month has passed, John is finally allowed to return home. He still has his usual therapy sessions, but no longer needs to stay in the facility at all times. He and Sherlock are elated and celebrate his first night home in their bedroom. And the bath and the sofa and even bent over Sherlock’s desk, soiling a couple of cold case files from NSY. When John realizes it, he is monumentally embarrassed because Sherlock has to return them at some point and how is he going to explain that? The detective merely shrugs indifferently, saying that the files were fairly filthy to begin with and that no one will even notice. He also informs John he doesn’t give a toss if anyone sees it. He is over the moon that John is home and intends to christen the bed with him again, thank you very much. John is completely on board with that idea.

Days and weeks pass as their lives return to normal. John is even able to go on cases after a short while. With the wedding fast approaching, Mrs. Hudson takes to visiting the flat at least once a day to gush over the duo. She nearly always leaves misty-eyed and nostalgic. Sherlock usually rolls his eyes and stops paying attention. John would roll his too, except that he has learned more about his detective’s past than he thought possible, and in such a short period of time too. It is like Sherlock Holmes, 101. He almost regrets missing her visits on days when he goes to both physical therapy and the surgery, now that he is trying out a halftime schedule. It is earlier than he expected, but his recovery has gone so well that he has already given up his sling. Knowing the surgery, and even his own office, could be a trigger, John does his best to pay careful attention to his internal barometer throughout his shifts and is always relieved when they are over. A four hour shift is about all he can take at present.

“Shit,” John glances at the clock on the wall as he hurries through the flat, stopping periodically to pull his shoes on or put something in his bag. He is definitely going to be late to his shift if he doesn’t get a move-on. He can hear a violin playing as he goes and stops at the source when he reaches the sitting room, finding Sherlock at the window. He smiles fondly at his back. Feeling his eyes, Sherlock turns and smiles, bending at the waist in a little bow as he continues to play.

“Right. I’m off to the surgery and I’m meeting Mike for a bit after.”

“Ah, to ask him to be your best man.”

“What? No, no,” John laughs. “I asked him that weeks ago. No, it’s just to go over…some…wedding…”

John’s words slow as he watches Sherlock stop playing and shift on his feet. He noticeably tries to avoid John’s eyes and wears the expression of a child being unmasked as a cookie thief. The short doctor purses his lips and looks at his fiance with stormy eyes.

“Tell me you’ve already asked Greg.”

Sherlock smiles in that endearing way he does when he is about to get in trouble. John sighs, his shoulders sagging with the breath. His brows furrow in a mixture of anger and disbelief as he awaits the man’s response. Sherlock looks at him timidly.

“Yes, I may have neglected to mention it.”

“Christ,” John mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll speak with him right away, John,” Sherlock says, quickly putting down his instrument and scrambling to John. “Besides, we know he’s going to be there anyway. Does it really matter if this is merely added onto his role?”

“Yes! Yes, it matters. You don’t just surprise a guest with that,” he continues affecting a sarcastic tone. “Welcome to the wedding. You’re going to be best man. Good luck with that.”

“I wasn’t going to do it that way,” Sherlock replies haughtily.

“Really?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and looks very guilty.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, yes, all right. I’ll ask him the next time I see him.”

“The wedding is two weeks away! You MAKE time to see him.”

“Make time?”

“Call him. Meet him for drinks. Ask him,” John tells him sternly.

“Will you be coming along?”

“What? No, I don’t need to go along.”

“But I never go out for drinks without you. I don’t do drinks.”

“This one time you can make an excep… No. You know what. Yes, I’ll go along. Just phone Greg,” John storms down the hall to the front door and reaches for his coat, but six feet of consulting detective is suddenly pressing his body against the door to stop him. His bag falls from his shoulder as Sherlock spins him around. “What the fuck, mmph!”

The taller man stops his mouth with a rather dazzling kiss, sandwiching John between himself and the door. Sherlock kisses him hard at first, but quickly softens it and nibbles at his lips. John remains very stern and irritated, trying to talk around the detective’s lips. However, his resolve eventually falters and their mouths begin to move in tandem. When Sherlock opens his eyes to look at John again, the man is breathless and calm. His eyes are closed. Sherlock nips at his lower lip once more and John shivers.

“Damn you,” John whispers, swallowing hard. “That is not going to work every time, you know.”

“As long as it works this time,” Sherlock’s hands find John’s and twine their fingers together. He kisses John’s nose, as the man cocks a brow and purses his lips in that adorable way that only he can.

“Just call him.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I’ll do it, John.”

“Promise me!”

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock pouts. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” he steps up on tiptoe and kisses Sherlock’s nose in return. The detective’s mouth curls into a smile and he swoops in for another kiss. Meanwhile, John frees his left hand and scrabbles for the doorknob. “Sherlock, I have to go.”

Sherlock grumbles and presses one more kiss to his doctor’s lips before stepping back. His mobile sounds as he watches John put on his coat and he fishes it from his pocket.

“Aha! The man himself,” he exclaims, putting the phone to his ear. “You have a case.”

John buttons his coat, lifts his bag from where he dropped it, and turns to leave. However, a large hand deftly grabs his ass and traps him against the detective.

“Sherlock, let go!” he insists quietly. “I’m going to be late.”

All he gets in response is a squeeze and an eyebrow cocked playfully in his direction. As Sherlock listens to Greg, John glowers and waits.

“Yes. Mm. Text me the address. I’ll be there shortly,” Sherlock pockets his mobile and turns his full attention to John. “Seems there’s a case.”

“Just talk to him.”

“I did promise, did I not?”

“You did. See that you don’t forget.”

Sherlock gives him a cheeky smile and pinches the firm cheek in his hand.

“I was not aware I could get out of promises that way.”

John suddenly grabs his lapels and stares him down. Sherlock can’t take his eyes off the man, finding his sudden Captain Watson demeanor incredibly sexy.

“You can’t,” John growls. Unable to stop himself, Sherlock closes the gap, bringing their mouths together once again. The kiss is soft and slow, but no less heated than the harder ones they shared earlier. John feels an undeniable warmth pooling low in his belly. God, that mouth. Those hands. This man. Sherlock looks at his fiance fondly when they part. John meets his eyes once he opens his own. A quiet and embarrassing moan escapes his lips as he sighs.

“Christ, Sherlock, you should be illegal.”

“Are you quite certain I’m not?” the detective cocks a brow again, his mouth turning up playfully.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re going to be late,” Sherlock informs him in a pleasant voice, still smiling fondly.

“Then let go of my ass.”

“Is that a requirement?” the tall man asks. John huffs a laugh and Sherlock joins him, reluctantly removing his hand from John’s person. The shorter man pecks his lips and turns to the door. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Be careful,” John looks at him hesitantly, wondering if he should call in and go with Sherlock. Seeing the look in his eyes, the detective grumbles in mock frustration.

“Another promise?” he smiles, takes John’s hand, and kisses the knuckles. “I will. I promise.”

John studies his face, a small smile on his own. Sherlock would normally assume John is searching for deception because that is what most other people he has met throughout his life would do, but the expression is all wrong. John looks more like a man who absolutely adores what he sees and can’t believe his luck, an expression Sherlock never imagined would be directed at him.

“Thank you.”

“Tonight then. I will pick up Thai.”

John smiles and heads down the stairs with Sherlock watching after him until the building’s door closes. His mobile sounds almost immediately. He pulls on his Belstaff and checks the address from Greg. Grabbing his scarf and tying it around his neck, he glides down the stairs and out the door to catch a cab.

***

Hours later, Greg Lestrade makes his way through the desks and cubicles of his fellow officers on the fourth floor of New Scotland Yard. He calls out reminders to some as he passes, one hands him a coffee as he goes. He nods his thanks and takes a sip before cracking a joke to a sergeant standing near Sally Donovan’s desk, which is where he stops. She straightens from where she had been hunched over her work and stretches her neck while looking at her superior.

“He’s been processed?” Greg sips his coffee.

“Yep. Cursing and complaining about a certain consulting detective the whole time. This guy may be small-time, but Holmes certainly made himself an enemy today.”

“While I agree,” Greg comments, “I don’t think he much cares.”

“Maybe not, but there’s something on his mind,” she nods over Greg’s shoulder. He turns to follow her eyes and sees the tall detective sitting in his own office. The man looks bored, but appears to be waiting patiently.

“Crikey. He came to give a statement already?”

“And finished it,” Sally nods again. They both watch the detective apprehensively. Greg bites his lip and Sally continues. “He’s been sitting in there quietly ever since.”

“Quietly?” Greg turns back to her, disbelief on his face that almost immediately goes slack. “Oh, god. Something’s happened to John.”

“If it had, he wouldn’t be sitting around here,” she exclaims with a bark of laughter. 

“True enough,” Greg agrees. He looks back to his office to see the man looking at him through the glass window. Greg cringes and turns his head back to Sally. “Wish me luck.”

She chuckles as he walks away to face the deadly force of nature in his office. The detective watches him with irritation all the way. Splotches of dark purple bloom around Sherlock’s left eye, a fresh cut just over his cheekbone. He holds an ice bag is in one hand, but not to his eye.

“It’s about bloody time,” he remarks irritably. “Did you stop for a pint on the way back?”

“Put that back on your eye!”

“What? Why?”

“Your wedding is two weeks away and look at you. Christ, John’s going to kill me.”

“My eye will be fine by the wedding. It’s not important.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Greg peers at the injury. “It might just be okay if you keep it from swelling a lot. Now use the ice.”

Sherlock glares and grumbles at the DI.

“My medical care…”

“Do it or I’ll lock you up,” Greg says loudly, pointing at him with the hand not holding his coffee.

“On what charge?” the detective demands incredulously.

“Does it really matter if John has to come get you out?”

Sherlock’s silver eyes flicker in recognition. John would, in fact, be greatly displeased. Fucking pissed, actually. Sherlock slowly raises the ice pack and rests it on his own face, glowering at the DI. Satisfied, Greg walks to his desk and sits. He eyes the detective with a smirk and takes another drink, leaning back in his chair comfortably.

“So, what’s on your mind?”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock shifts in his seat, suddenly ill at ease. “I…I’m in need of a favor.”

Greg is about to respond, but Sherlock clears his throat and shifts again. From anyone else, it wouldn’t phase Greg in the slightest, but from this man, it is odd to say the least. The DI cocks a brow, beginning to share the detective’s unease.

“Go ahead,” he says cautiously.

“Right,” he starts to lower the ice pack, but Greg gives him a death glare. The pack goes back in place over the eye. Sherlock clears his throat again and squares his shoulders.

“I once told John that I didn’t have any friends and, at that time, I thought he was my only one,” he swallows and smiles awkwardly. It’s more like a grimace really. Greg tucks his chin and frowns, leaning back further into his chair. “Since then I have come to realize that I have many more friends than I ever expected to. You have been a friend to me almost from the beginning of our association and I was too blind to see it.”

Sherlock pauses. He shifts his eyes away from Greg to the door, wishing he was walking through it. He would love nothing more than to be anywhere but in this office with this man, talking about this. He looks back at Greg, who can clearly tell exactly what he’s thinking. Mostly because he isn’t trying to hide it at all.

Greg leans forward in his chair, placing his coffee on the desk and resting his elbows on either side of the cup. His fingers are touching. His expression ranges from confusion to wariness. Sherlock truly grimaces this time.

“I told John I’m rubbish at this,” he scrubs his free hand through his curls.”The wedding is only weeks away and I…”

“Oh, god,” Greg interrupts him in shock and dread, “you’re leaving John.”

Sherlock stares at him in stunned silence. His jaw drops, eyes wide, his body immobile. He is a complete contrast to Greg, who has suddenly sprung into action and is already in front of his desk pacing and speaking quickly.

“I understand. I do. It’s only natural for someone who has denied his own emotions for so long to be scared at feeling something so strong. It must be like nothing you’ve felt before, but Sherlock, you can’t do this to John, or yourself. You just can’t. He is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you to him,” he stops pacing and faces the silent man in his office. Sherlock’s mouth is closed, his silver eyes look sharp and cold. “Before you met, you were happy enough solving crimes and the like, but you were only a fraction of who you are now. The two of you, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. People say they complete each other all the time, but you and John actually do.”

When Greg stops talking, the silence around them is deafening. The two men stare at one another, not daring to speak. Greg notices that Sherlock looks not just angry, as he expected, but also hurt. It’s not something he is accustomed to seeing on the detective’s features, but there is no other word for it.

“Now, look, it’s okay,” Greg steps toward the detective. “Let’s just talk it through.”

“Oh, for god sake!” Sherlock snaps. “I want you to be my best man!”

“What?”

“My best man. That’s what I wanted to ask you, what I came here to say.”

Greg stares with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing with no sound. He can’t quite grasp the situation he is now in, so he simply continues staring and tries to understand what he just heard because it is, by far, the last thing he expected to hear.

A moment later, Sherlock slowly stands to his full height and looks down at Greg solemnly. He bites the inside of his cheek and then speaks quietly, looking the DI right in the eye.

“I know I’m a bastard. I don’t make any effort not to be. But if you know anything else about me, you must know I could never hurt John so deeply.”

Greg gapes, suddenly feeling like a complete asshole. Of course he knows that. Of course he does! What the fuck is he thinking? Greg grits his teeth in anger at himself.

“This was a mistake,” Sherlock looks at the ice pack in his hands. “I shouldn’t have come.”

He starts to move, but Greg slides in his way, arms outstretched and a bit of a desperate look on his face.

“Wait, Sherlock. Please. I…I was wrong. Incredibly wrong. And stupid. But you were freaking me out and I guess I jumped to the most fucked-up conclusion I could,” he shrugs and looks at his friend apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“John is my life.”

“I know.” They study each other in silence until Greg puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gives him a timid smile. “Now sit down and put that pack on your face.”

The corner of the detective’s mouth quirks up and he sinks down onto his seat again.

“How does it look?”

“Oh, it’s swelling all right. No doubt about it,” Greg smiles genuinely as he watches Sherlock cover his eye. “So...your best man.”

“Yes,” the detective meets his eyes.

“I would be honored, Sherlock,” tilting his head and continuing carefully. “If you still want me.”

“Thank you, Greg,” he says, his eyes brightening a bit. The DI grins at Sherlock and claps a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he turns to his desk, picks up his coffee cup, and sips at the tepid liquid. Sitting on the front edge of his desk and looking at his friend, he can’t help but cringe.

“Shit. John really is going to kill me.”

“John won’t care,” Sherlock answers, rolling his eyes. “I have come home with much worse than this. He won’t even mention it.”

***

“What the fuck happened to your face?!” are the words that greet Sherlock the moment his doctor lays eyes on him. He stands tall and confident in the sitting room, every pore exuding his trademark irritation and his tone to match.

“I’ve come home with far worse than this.”

“Yeah, sure, absolutely right,” John remarks calmly. Sherlock narrows his eyes suspiciously, not believing it for a second. Just as well, because John’s sudden switch to shouting again doesn’t faze Sherlock at all. “We weren’t getting married in a few days any of those times either!”

“It is to take place fourteen days from now and I will be fine by then.”

“I know how many bloody days it is!” the doctor curses through clenched teeth. “What happened?”

“You are giving this too much consideration, John.”

John gets right up into Sherlock’s personal space and clamps his hand over the man’s mouth. His eyes go wide, taken aback. John tucks his chin and looks up at his fiance with what Sherlock secretly calls adorably angry eyes.

“I am going to take my hand off your mouth and you are going to tell me what happened.”

Sherlock stares down at him in surprise.

“Aren’t you,” John says firmly. It is clearly not a question, in spite of how it is phrased. Sherlock starts to nod slowly and then a little faster when John begins to nod along with him.

“All right then,” John removes his hand. “What happened?”

“I may have collided with a suspect who was less than pleased with being tricked into confessing his guilt.”

“He punched you in the face.”

“Twice.” John facepalms. “But he’s been caught, John. He’ll not murder again.”

“Yeah, well, that’s something anyway. Come to the loo so I can get a proper look.”

“Why is the loo the only room in this flat that affords you a ‘proper look’?” Sherlock asks petulantly as John drags him down the hall by his wrist.

“Because it has the best light. Now, move.”

John pulls him inside the room and stands him by the toilet, simply muttering sit as he gets out his medical kit and opens its hard cover. He mentally settles on which salve to use once he has examined the taller man’s eye, but finds him still standing when he faces him again. John purses his lips.

“I can’t see it if you don’t sit down,” he tells him tersely.

“Has it occurred to you that I have been examined already? That I can take care of myself when injured? I’m not the child Mycroft believes.”

John bites his lip. Equating him to Mycroft is pretty low as insults go, but John can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. He makes an obvious effort to soften his eyes and expression, as well as his body language. It is a move not lost on his over-observant flatmate. John takes a short step back, retreating slightly from Sherlock’s personal space.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I have nothing if not a hot temper.” Sherlock snorts, provoking a tight smile from John, but Sherlock can see a genuine smile in his eyes. “I worry after you.”

“I know,” the detective replies sincerely.

“It’s hard not to when you so often put yourself in harm’s way without a thought.”

“I put thought into it,” Sherlock straightens his spine, a hint of the defensive in his tone. “I always put thought into it.”

“Of course you do,” John smiles.

“I consider all of the possibilities.”

“Sit down,” John tries to get back on point. Sherlock meets his fond gaze. “Please.”

Without breaking eye contact, the taller man sinks down until his delicious bum rests on the toilet seat. John steps close and touches his fingers to Sherlock’s chin, tilting his head gently. He swallows and diverts his eyes from the gorgeous, pale neck laid bare before him. John stoops over the man and peers at his eye. Sherlock watches as John’s tongue wets his lips while he studies the wound. John’s fingertips glide softly over the tender skin stretched over his cheekbone. The doctor reaches for the salve and carefully applies it. Sherlock watches John’s face with fascination and flinches only once. John apologizes quickly and resumes with an even more gentle touch. When he is finished, John looks down into dilated silver eyes.

“I’d like to apply a small bandage. It will help to heal and not scab over,” John says in a low voice. “The bruises will have almost faded entirely for the wedding.”

“Imagine my relief,” the detective replies quietly, a little breathless.

“And mine,” John whispers, looking into his fiance’s face. They both know he isn’t talking about Sherlock’s bruises anymore. 

Sherlock watches as John’s dark blue irises give way to his growing black pupils. He shivers at John’s warm breath on his cheek. He reaches for his doctor and cups his nape, gently guiding John down to his own waiting lips.

The kiss is electric. The two men are scrabbling with shirt buttons in seconds and when John’s warm hands push the deep purple fabric from Sherlock’s shoulders, the man rises to his full height and backs John against the wall with a loud thunk. Their mouths devour, hands are everywhere. Both shirts fall to the floor and Sherlock starts in on John’s flies while he licks down John’s neck and bites gently at his collar bone.

“You hit your head,” Sherlock’s voice comes out low as he continues to mouth at his doctor.

“S’fine,” John replies breathlessly, nipping his ear.

Sherlock slides his hands around John’s ass to the backs of his thighs and lifts as he thrusts up forcefully, lifting the smaller man off his feet and causing him to moan loudly. John’s hands find Sherlock’s shoulders and his legs wrap around his slender waist. Sherlock thrusts him against the wall again. This time the doctor shouts and the detective cannot help but follow. Sherlock casts his eyes upward to see John’s are blown wide. He swallows hard.

“Bed.”

“Now.”

Sherlock licks a pebbled nipple, grinning at John’s answering curse before backing away from the wall, bringing the doctor with him, and stumbling to the bedroom. There, he collapses onto his lover onto the bed and sets to work on his beautiful, tanned neck. Within minutes, trousers and pants are gone and their naked skin, already glistening with sweat, slides together eliciting a moan from them both.

“God. Fuck. Inside me. Now.”

Sherlock tears himself away from hot skin only to stop on kiss-swollen lips, a delightful distraction indeed.

“John,” he says around the man’s lips.

“Christ, Sherlock.”

The detective finally pulls himself away again and comes back with a bottle of lube. He quickly slicks his fingers and glides them down to John’s hole. The doctor’s eyes widen as a single digit slides in.

“Oh god, Sherlock. God, yes!”

They work their way up to three and then Sherlock pulls out, replacing his hand with his own painfully hard cock. Both men cry out as their bodies press together tightly, Sherlock’s head already touching John’s prostate.

Sherlock pulls out a bit and thrusts back in. John’s eyes gloss over for a split-second and then look directly into Sherlock’s, his hands gripping the man’s ass firmly. They stare at one another and then thrust together, their voices joining in loud moans and cries of pleasure.

“God, you are definitely illegal!”

Sherlock just grunts deeply as they continue thrusting, increasing and decreasing the pace in tandem without uttering a word. They communicate with looks and touches, like there could never be a more natural partnership. Sherlock’s lips find John’s again and he licks in softly. The smaller man responds in kind. The connection between them feels stronger than steel. Unbreakable.

Sherlock pulls back to look at John’s flushed face. Beautiful. The most beautiful person he has ever seen. Warm and welcoming, and on the verge of tumbling into previously unknown pleasure from the look of it.

“Sherlock?”

The sounds of John’s voice pulls him from his reverie. The detective pecks his lips and gives him a wicked smile before licking a stripe up the sensitive skin of John’s neck and slowing his hips to a truly languid, luxurious motion. It immediately has the desired effect and he watches as John’s mouth drops open, his eyes darkening and half closed. It doesn’t take long for him to match his own hips to Sherlock’s, sending the man into a swirling ecstasy that clouds his mind so thoroughly that he isn’t certain he will ever see or think properly again. He blinks when a gasping voice reaches his ears.

“Nnnaah, Sherlock. Mmm! I’m…I’m gonna…OH, GOD!”

Ribbons of milky-white liquid spurt between them, covering their stomachs and chests. John’s eyes are wide now and locked on Sherlock. His mouth is open as he lets his head tilt back, releasing the guttural moan of a man completely undone, in utter bliss, and so completely in love.

Still holding John’s love-drunk gaze, Sherlock explodes into John’s body. John’s lips round into a perfect O, his eyes growing unbelievably wide, and another sudden burst of fluid erupts between them. This time a little slips out from between their bodies and lands on Sherlock’s cheek, but neither notices as they ride out the orgasm together.

When John’s brain comes back online, Sherlock has pulled out, but is still resting on John’s body. There is a small, fond smile on his lips and a shimmer of laughter in his eyes. John huffs a laugh through his pants and ruffles the man’s soft curls.

“You are gorgeous, John Watson.”

“You’re delusional,” he laughs. Sherlock purses his lips and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling in mock thought. John notices the come on his cheek and wipes it away with a thumb, smiling all the while. Sherlock cannot disguise a smirk.

“Are you sure? Mm. Pretty sure I’m not.” John laughs again. Sherlock grins. “You  **are** the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”

“You don’t get out much,” John barks with laughter.

“Tragic, I know. Turns out there’s this man with a stunning body who keeps me in bed at all hours. You know him,” Sherlock smirks knowingly, and John continues chuckling. “Would you prefer adorable? I could say adorable.”

“Absolutely not,” John’s tone is suddenly serious, but he still wears a wide grin on his face. “You will not use that word, thank you very much.”

“Then gorgeous it is,” he kisses the laugh from John’s lips and cannot help but gasp at the same time. Looking into those dark blue eyes, Sherlock sees his future. This is the man he will spend his life with. The man who loves him. The man he loves undyingly. The man he never imagined he would find. Never had Sherlock considered that such a life, such happiness would be his. But here he is with a John Watson in his arms.

Beaming, he gazes at his fiance wistfully and leans in to brush their lips together. John inhales deeply, a smile on his face, tousling Sherlock’s soft curls. Sherlock practically purrs at the feel of warm fingers on his scalp.

“Fancy a shower?” he asks a bit suggestively, waggling his brows. “I’ll lather you up if you do me.”

“Mmm..” John bites his lip as if in thought and then grins. “Oh god, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! That Part is done. I was just telling one of my readers how much I love this chapter. It tickles me. The interactions between the boys are perfect to my way of thinking and I laugh every time I read them. The image of John putting his hand over Sherlock's mouth and telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he is going to tell him exactly what he wants to know is so easy to conjure in my mind. I can just see Freeman and Cumberbatch in those roles and god, it's so funny. I hope you all enjoy these images too.
> 
> And now, because there has been banter and because the way this Part ends it could easily be the end.  
> BUT NO! I wouldn't do that to you. Leave you all hanging with no actual wedding. "No, Jane, no! You must give us the wedding! We had to sit through that damn wedding between John and Mary on the show and we don't get one here?! The one we WANTED to see??" LOL No worries. There will be a wedding and a wedding night. (infamous eyebrow waggle)
> 
> JANE! JANE! DOES THAT MEAN?!?! Yes! Yes, friends, there will be a Part 8. Editing will soon commence.  
> In the meantime, happy reading and have fun thinking about what the future holds for these two lovebirds.  
> Love, Jane


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